Henry glanced around the room, trying desperately to keep his nervousness from showing. Decorated in feminine peach and green, there was no doubt the room belonged to a young lady. She is my wife, he kept thinking, the scent of honeysuckle wafting up to fill his nostrils and make his brain even more addled, if that were even possible. “My lady, I ...” His gaze fell on her bed, the coverlet and blankets folded down to expose the wide expanse of white linens. Good grief! Her bed was larger than his own! He could take her right then and there, truly make her his wife. God knew his cock wanted to; his manhood had hardened the moment she opened the door and gave him a tentative smile. And then, when her hand touched his arm to pull him into the room, the heat he felt inflamed him even more.
“We are alone,” she said simply, wanting to assure him her lady’s maid, Lily, wasn’t still somewhere in the suite.
I could kiss her at least, Henry thought suddenly, wondering if he would be able to leave before they made it anywhere near the bed. This was the bedchamber she’d slept in since she was in the nursery, he considered. He dared not deflower her here. He really should wait. Take her back to Oxfordshire, to Gisborn Hall and one of the bedchambers there. The one that was adjacent to his, with the connecting dressing room and a bath. Yes, that’s where he would do it.
“Henry?” Hannah whispered, her eyes round. Her body seemed to be shaking.
She’s frightened, of course, he thought suddenly. Her mother had probably died before telling her what to expect on her wedding night. Christ, he didn’t know exactly what he was supposed to expect on his wedding night! It had been so long since that first time with Sarah, when he’d been too anxious and too impatient and too aroused to understand how to make love to a woman. Sarah had cried afterwards, huge tears accompanied by sobs that wracked her body. She told him to leave her alone. And he had. For two days, in fact, until she found him working in the fields near the river and slammed her fist into his face. He’d dropped like a rock, the pain under his eye so acute he thought he would be sick. But Sarah was suddenly there, begging for forgiveness and gently kissing his blackening cheek.
Had he fallen in love with her then?
He must have, for he had promised he would not pursue any of the other girls in the village (not that there were many of them). He bedded her again the next evening, and again after the village dance and ... When her condition was noticeable a few months later, his uncle boxed his ears and shipped Sarah off to his aunt’s house near Oxford. Henry visited her frequently, using each trip as another opportunity to ask for her hand in marriage.
But she was a stubborn girl, refusing him every time, even when the babe was about to be born. At that point, his aunt had even tried to convince Sarah to marry him, telling the poor girl Henry would eventually be the tenth Earl of Gisborn and Sarah, who was no better than a low-born commoner, could be his countess.
Sarah never relented.
A few weeks after his son was born, the three of them made their way back to the village nearest Gisborn Hall. Despite his uncle’s directive that he denounce the child as his own, Henry set up a household for Sarah and made sure everyone knew the babe was his son. The earl could denounce him, he’d decided. Used to laboring in the fields, he could make his own way in the world.
And then something amazing had happened.
When Nathan was but six weeks old, the Earl of Gisborn paid them a visit at the unfashionable hour of eight o’clock in the evening. Upon seeing his grand-nephew, Randolph Forster announced he was again making Henry his heir. His large hand had settled on Henry’s shoulder and given it a shake. “You did right by your son. Even if she,” he pointed at Sarah and lowered his voice so only Henry could hear, “Is too proud or stupid to realize it.”
Had the entire situation been a test? Henry always wondered at the earl’s pronouncement that evening. And he hadn’t counted on the earl actually bequeathing the entire Gisborn estate nor the earldom to him (although Henry found out later he would have been granted the earldom no matter what – he was the late earl’s closest living male relative).
So, now he stood before his very lovely, very nervous bride and allowed the smell of honeysuckle to addle his brain some more. I should kiss her. Say a few sweet nothings. Say good night and take my leave. Lowering his lips to hers, he kissed her ever so lightly. When she raised her hands to his shoulders and then wrapped them around his neck, he deepened the kiss.
Her body was warm and soft beneath his hands, the entire front of her body pressed against his in open invitation. One of his hands drew up the side of her body, its thumb caressing the side of her breast before he gently drew it over the taut nipple, the fabric of her night rail thin enough so that he could almost believe he was touching her heated skin directly. He took satisfaction in feeling Hannah’s reaction against his mouth as her lips were force to break from his in order so she could inhale sharply.
Perhaps one more kiss and then he would leave her. The hand that caressed her nipple opened over her breast, gently lifting the mound that was, indeed, a bit larger than his hand. He captured Hannah lips to stifle her cry and then slowly slid the hand down to her hip. Gathering the fabric of her night rail beneath his palm, pulling up the gown as he did so, soon Henry had the flat of his hand smoothing over the side of her thigh, the globe of her bottom and to the front where he barely touched her belly. Hannah’s body spasmed in response, a moan rising from her throat as his kiss continued to consume her cries. When he slid his palm through the crisp curls and into the space between her thighs, he gripped her bottom with his other hand and held her hard against his body, knowing in a moment her legs would turn to gelatin and she would require his support to remain upright.
“Henry,” she managed to whisper against his lips.
Pulling his mouth away from hers, he kissed her hair and the column of her neck as his fingers searched for her womanhood. He was about to force her legs apart with a knee, but she slid one foot sideways, and suddenly, his fingers were sliding along her wet, swollen folds of flesh. The scent of feminine musk reached his nostrils as his fingers found their prey. He felt Hannah’s grip on him tighten, felt her tremulous breaths, as if she dared not breathe until whatever was about to happen ... and then she arced her body. With her hip solid against his erection and her head thrown back in ecstasy, Henry waited until he heard her quiet keening before stilling his fingers.
He was suddenly aware of his own body, of his own arousal, of her hip pressed against him. The sight of her head thrown back set off something in him he found he could not stop. His climax, so sudden and so unexpected, gripped his entire body. Pulling Hannah hard against the front of his body, he planted his mouth on her shoulder to stifle the growl, struggled hard to keep his legs beneath him, and wondered at how his body seemed to be trembling so hard. Stunned that the sight of his wife in ecstasy could have such an effect on him, Henry finally inhaled and gentled his hold on her.
Shaking like a leaf, Hannah struggled to regain her sense of self, tried to pull herself back into a single body, sure she was lost in some oblivion where her physical being didn’t exist.
Slowly, she became aware of Henry’s quiet whispers in her ear, of his hands stroking her back, stroking her shoulders, of her body being lifted and moved into a cloud of white and covered in warmth, of Henry’s lips on hers, of his lips on her neck. And then, as if it was all just a dream, she found herself dreaming.
Still breathing heavily, Henry gave Hannah one last kiss before taking his leave of her. It was a very long walk to his room at the other end of the house.
Chapter 8
The Newlyweds on a Long Ride
Henry glanced at Hannah. She sat on the other side in the coach, facing the direction of their travel while he sat opposite. Her gaze was directed at something beyond the window. They had barely looked at one another the entire morning, each of them stealing glances at one another and then quickly averting their eyes should one be caught staring by the other. Their conversatio
n had been stilted, so uncomfortable at one point that Henry thought Hannah might cry. So he had dropped the subject of her possible need for warmer gowns and a mantle in favor of silence.
Well, it would have been silent in the coach had Harold MacDuff not been sprawled on the floor between them. The dog’s snoring was sometimes so loud Henry was sure he once saw Hannah grin before covering her mouth with a gloved hand. She was beautiful when she grinned like that, as if she harbored some secret to which only she was privy.
Actually, she was beautiful with any expression on her face, Henry decided.
Every time he thought to stretch out his long limbs, his boots ended up nudging the hairy beast so that it would lift its head suddenly and snuffle and snort in surprise. Earlier that morning, Henry had thought to simply leash the dog to the back of the coach, but realized very quickly the dog wouldn’t have been able to keep up with the coach-and-four as it made its way out the Great West Road for the seventy-five mile trek to Gisborn Hall. And then he wondered if the dog could sit up on the box with the driver, but one glance at the size of the box, and another at the size of Harold, and Henry realized there would be no room for the driver. Perhaps Harold could be relegated to the older carriage that would follow with the rest of Lady Hannah’s trunks and her maid the following day, but with the volume of stuff still being packed and loaded onto that conveyance, Henry wondered if there would even be room for Lily. He’d spied the maid when she was hurrying about with an armful of gowns, sure he had seen her somewhere before. But his attention had been diverted and the chance to ask about her passed.
In one of her few comments that morning, Hannah suggested the dog ride inside the coach for the sole purpose of keeping her slippered feet warm. “A hot brick won’t be necessary, my lord,” she’d assured him when he was about to order a servant to have one brought out from the kitchens. “Harold serves the purpose quite effectively.”
Henry found he had to agree. Good God, the dog was huge, covering nearly the entire floor of the coach. Having realized his own feet would be far warmer if he sat with Hannah and placed his feet next to hers under the back of the dog, he was about to ask if he could do so when he realized Hannah was turning in his direction. Not wanting to be caught staring, he quickly turned his head to look out the window.
Hannah stole a glance in the direction of the earl, sure his gaze had been directed at her, and then, suddenly, it wasn’t. He was looking out the window to his right, she realized as she dared a longer look. His profile was quite striking, she thought, with its strong nose, square jaw and wide chin. His neatly trimmed almost-black hair included one forelock that seemed determined to curl above one eyebrow, and despite his having shaved that morning, there was already a hint of dark shadow along his jawline. A quick glance might have the viewer thinking him a rogue or even a highwayman. My husband, she thought for at least the tenth time that morning. So handsome, so tall, so ... uncomfortable. Despite the roomy interior of the new coach in which they rode, Henry Forster seemed somehow scrunched into the squabs, his limbs too long for the leather seat and his torso too tall for the seat’s back. And then Hannah noticed how his knees had to bend so that his feet could take purchase on the floor next to Harold’s sprawled mass. “Oh, goodness, my lord. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable sitting on this side?” The words were out of her mouth before she realized she’d said them, and she wondered if she had made a mistake in suggesting he share the seat with her. Would he think her fast in suggesting such an arrangement? She had to suppress a giggle. I am his wife, not some chit fresh out of the schoolroom, she chided herself. She struggled to think of what to add when she saw his startled expression, as if he was surprised she had the ability to speak. “Then you could put your feet under Harold. Keep them warm,” she added, resisting the urge to roll her eyes when the reasoning sounded lame to her own ears. Harold raised his head at the sound of his name but allowed it to plop back down onto his front paws when he realized he wasn’t being addressed directly.
Hiding his astonishment at his wife’s insight, especially at the very moment he was thinking the very same thing, Henry nodded. “If you would not mind, my lady,” he answered quickly, moving carefully to step over the dog and reposition himself on the bench seat next to Hannah. To be facing the direction of travel was a relief; he despised not being able to see ahead, even if it was through the windows, as they made their way west toward Oxfordshire.
“Not at all, my lord. I should wish for your comfort, of course,” Hannah replied shyly, one gloved hand gathering her skirts so they were no longer spread out across the seat. She left the hand resting on a thigh, not wanting to appear as if she couldn’t sit still.
Henry settled himself into the squabs and let out a sigh of relief as his limbs stretched a bit. Warmth crept into feet where his boots were tucked under the dog. “Thank you, my lady. This was an excellent idea,” he said, placing a black-gloved hand over hers where it rested on her thigh. So tiny, he thought as his fingers curled slightly. If Hannah was surprised or made uncomfortable by his touch, he could not sense it in her hand.
Hannah had to suppress the start she felt at his hand closing over the back of hers. The heat from his palm actually permeated their gloves, leaving her hand bathed in comforting warmth. She wondered if she would feel that same warmth when their bodies were pressed together in their marriage bed. A frisson passed through her body at the thought. She should already know how it felt to have him next to her in bed. He should have been in it last night! Why hadn’t he simply bedded her when he had the chance? She’d been quite ready for him, her white-blond hair loose and brushed to a gleaming shine, her new night rail clinging to her slight curves, her feet encased in daring half-slippers that displayed her toes. She’d made sure the maid was gone and the bed linens were turned down. Having been told what to expect by her friends who were young matrons, especially by Elizabeth, she was quite prepared to be ravished. Then Henry had come to her door, and instead of coming all the way in, he’d stood there on the threshold acting like some shy boy barely out of Eton attending his first ball and telling her he was very glad to meet her, but could he reserve a dance for the next ball instead?
She’d almost said, “Of course not. You’re here. Dance with me now!” Or something to that effect. How dare he? It was their wedding night. He should have claimed what was rightfully his right then and there. At least he’d had the decency to kiss her, although the slight pressing of lips could hardly be called a kiss. But then he had kissed her more deeply, and used his hands to great effect on her body. And then he had pleasured her quite thoroughly – her body seemed to quake even now as she remembered the sharp sensations he’d created with his caresses. Who knew a man’s hands could deliver so much pleasure?
Elizabeth knew, of course. Hannah couldn’t keep herself from blushing at the thought of some of the things George had done to Elizabeth. The woman had described them in detail, all the while seeming to re-experience the sensations she’d felt when he’d created them in the first place. George had probably pleasured her to within an inch of her life before they had even wed!
Blast and damnation! Hannah had been ready for Gisborn last night. After traveling seventy-five miles in a coach over roads that were proving a bit rough, she rather doubted she would want him in her bed tonight! And then she wondered if she would even have her own bed, or if they would always share a marriage bed. Nothing had been said as to the sleeping arrangements at Gisborn Hall.
Chancing another glance in his wife’s direction, Henry couldn’t help but notice Hannah’s delicate features, her skin so smooth and pale and fine it was almost translucent, eye lashes so long they seemed to collide with the tops of her cheekbones with every blink, lips that were full but not too large – kissable lips, he thought. He’d wanted desperately to spend the entire night kissing those lips, kiss them with far more passion than the simple kisses he’d placed on them when he came to bid Hannah good night. She’d looked ravishing in her night cl
othes, the thin fabric of her nightgown barely hiding her ... charms. And her hair ... he’d had no idea she had such long, lustrous hair. He wanted nothing more than to step into her bedchamber and strip her bare and slide his hands over her breasts and bottom and spread her legs and take her virtue as was his right as her husband. But the idea of taking her maidenhood in her own bed, the bed she’d probably slept in every night of her life since being out of the cradle – it seemed wrong, somehow. Had he taken her virtue, she might be left feeling sore. Given their long coach ride back to Oxfordshire, he considered she would be uncomfortable the entire trip. There was no use putting her through that. It might be a week or more before she would allow him to bed her again. And, truth be told, he wasn’t sure he would have been able to muster the courage. The effects of the champagne served just after the vicar declared the couple legally wed had long since worn off. So, instead, he had allowed his hands to wander and his lips to take hers more so he could keep her cries quiet than to impart any meaning to it.
But something had happened. Lust, he told himself. His body – the traitor – had made it clear he should be with his wife. Even now, he wondered at the sudden and glorious sensation he’d felt as Hannah’s pleasure crested, as if she was determined to take him along on the wave. But the thought of bedding his new wife made him feel as if he was betraying Sarah.
He’d only ever been with Sarah. His modest income prior to his inheritance hadn’t afforded him the life of most gentlemen. He didn’t have the funds to gamble or spend his nights in brothels, and there certainly wasn’t enough to hire a mistress, not that he ever wanted to. He had Sarah. She was the mother of his child. She was everything he had ever wanted in a wife. Damn her for thinking she wasn’t good enough to marry him!
The Seduction of an Earl Page 11
