Tempting the Bride

by Sherry Thomas

  “Did you know that for years you didn’t have any breasts?” he said while kissing her with only his lips. “And I loved to fantasize about your chest, flat as a board, nothing but beautiful, hard nipples.”

  She swallowed and looked down at his hand. Without moving it, he caught her nipple between two of his fingers and slowly tugged. The sight of it, the sharp pleasure of it—she panted, as if she’d been climbing stairs for hours on end.

  “I was almost disappointed when you did sprout those gorgeous breasts—but not anymore,” he murmured. “Not anymore.”

  He rubbed the pad of his thumb on her nipple. Her breath caught. The pleasure shot hard into her abdomen.

  He lowered his head and took her nipple into his mouth. She cried aloud—the pressure of his lips, the slow, moist swirl of his tongue, and occasionally, particularly, the unexpected scrape of his teeth.

  He did the same to her other nipple while she filled the room with moans and sobs. She gasped when his hand closed on her bottom, his fingers digging into her flesh. He groaned and sank his teeth into her shoulder.

  “Might as well put your other hand on it, too,” she managed to say, “since you like it so well.”

  But he didn’t. Instead he lifted her and laid her on the bed, pulling off her shoes as he went. “These must be the most beautiful legs in the entire world,” he said, peeling away her stockings.

  He climbed into bed himself and kissed his way up her legs. Instincts she didn’t even know she possessed made her clench her thighs together. Without any hesitation, he pushed them apart, exposing her to his gaze.

  “The doors of the temple, darling, never close to the devout acolyte.”

  And with that, he began his worship, gentle, almost sweet licks of the tongue just to the outside of her folds, before suddenly dipping his tongue inside her. She thrashed, her toes digging into the sheets, her body arching toward him, her hands gripping his hair.

  His tongue flicked a most sensitive part of her, but only once, making her moan and order him to do it again. He ignored her until she was so taken with the pleasure he wrought elsewhere that she forgot her own earlier demands. Then he suddenly went back to that spot, lavishing it with attention, making her scream from pleasure and need.

  When he put his teeth to use, her pleasure rose to a roaring peak. She buckled and shuddered, crying out incoherently, her thighs shaking as he, not letting her go in the least, took her to another peak, then another, then another.

  David. Oh, David, David, David.”

  The sound of his name on her lips was heaven’s own music. The deluge in the Sahara was flooding his humble temple, drowning him in good fortune and answered prayers.

  He kissed his way up her torso. Or perhaps he was pulled up by her hands in his hair.

  “Shall I do the same for you?” she asked urgently, her breath ragged.

  He almost lost himself right then. “Another time, maybe,” he rasped, “when you are not a virgin anymore.”

  “A what?”

  “We all assumed otherwise, but you told us you were still a virgin.” He kissed her on her shoulder.

  “What kind of an affair was that?” She sounded thunderstruck.

  “A prudent one, obviously.”

  “Well, then, quickly deflower me, so I may take you in my mouth and—”

  He kissed her on her eager mouth and pushed himself into her, unable to savor the moment as slowly as he’d always anticipated. Nor could he sink hilt-deep into her as his nearly out-of-control body wanted, for despite being impossibly slick, she was also impossibly tight.

  He groaned, maddened by the pleasure.

  “Dear God,” she murmured.

  He was immediately contrite. “I’m sorry. Does it hurt?”

  Her hand lowered to grab his bottom. “Yes, it does hurt, but I want to hold all of you inside me.”

  At her incendiary words, he drove deeper—far deeper—into her, unable to help himself.

  “So,” she said, her fingers on his cheek, “now I’ve made you mine.”

  He took her fingers in hand and kissed them one by one. “You made me yours long ago, but now you finally claimed me.”

  She licked his fingers. “I don’t know why I waited so long. I love claiming you.”

  He gritted his teeth. “Stop—everything. Or you will make me ejaculate prematurely.”

  She sucked on his fingers, her tongue teasing. “What is that?”

  He breathed hard. “Spilling my seed without properly pleasuring you first.”

  Her eyes were infinitely mischievous. “But you’ve already properly pleasured me. Go ahead, spill your seed. I want you to do it.”

  He almost did at the sound of those words. “Shut up, Helena. I have my pride to consider.”

  “Hmm.” She kissed him on his neck—she licked his neck. Her hand slipped between their bodies to touch the base of his cock.

  “Stop.” To punctuate his words, he withdrew and propelled into her again.

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, my. What’s that?”

  He did it yet again, deeper, harder. “This?”

  She panted. “Yes, that.”

  “This is what you are not getting more of if I come too early,” he growled.

  “I changed my mind. I want you to keep pounding me like this.”

  “God!” He swore, nearly undone by another surge of lust. “I am not going to last if you won’t be quiet.”

  She was utterly merciless. “You must—you have your pride to consider. And I want to tell you how good you feel inside me, how big and hard and powerful.” She wrapped her legs about him. “I might let you have supper later, but I am not going to let you sleep. You are going to pleasure me all night.”

  He kissed her to silence her, but there was no stopping her clever hands or her writhing body. Years of nighttime fantasy paled to utter insignificance before the reality of making love to her. For even in his wildest dreams she’d remained just a bit aloof. There was no aloofness here, no reluctance. She was all hot willingness and naughty touches, wanting him so much that she was already shuddering again, moaning deliriously against his lips.

  He shook with his own climax, emptying into her more and for longer than he ever thought possible, each convulsion more pleasurable than the previous. She kissed his lips, his nose, the lids of his eyes. He collapsed atop her, his heart bursting with sweetness, utterly drained and utterly undone.

  She tugged at his hair.

  “I’m awake,” he murmured.

  “You have been so silent,” she said, playing with his earlobe.

  He smiled into the crook of her neck. “I was imagining Lake Sahara.”

  She moved back slightly to look into his eyes. “What is that?”

  He lifted one hand to touch her cheek. “I used to think being in love with you was like praying for rain in the middle of the Sahara Desert. Well, rain has come, such a rain that soon half of North Africa will be a lake. There will be new grasslands and forests, an endless supply of fish, abundant wildlife of all sorts. And when the sun rises, birds in flocks of thousands will fly over the lake, their wings white as sails in the morning light.”

  She gazed at him, her eyes as green and soft as the grasslands of his imagination. “That is beautiful.”

  He felt like a pilgrim standing on the shores of Lake Sahara, having walked barefoot over hundreds of miles, yet all the hardships forgotten, filled with only wonder and reverence at the marvel of it all.

  She kissed him slowly, softly, and then said the loveliest words under the sky. “Let’s make it rain some more, David.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Helena was in high spirits. Who wouldn’t be, after a night of glorious lovemaking?

  Moreover, standing on the platform of the rail station, she was surrounded by her family again—they were all leaving London, she and her David to Kent, Fitz and Millie to Somerset, and Lexington and Venetia to Derbyshire. And on top of that, her recovered memories were making themselves useful
.

  Two ladies, who were also waiting for their train, had stopped to tender Helena their good wishes for both her health and her wedded bliss. And Helena had not needed to be reintroduced to either, for she’d met them both at Venetia’s first wedding and recalled them perfectly.

  And miraculously enough, nothing seemed to have changed about either. Miss Tallwood was still bespectacled and slightly stooped, more interested in the history of fabrics than the wearing of them. Her handsome sister Mrs. Damien had persisted in widowhood, preferring the nurture of orchids to the nurture of husbands and children.

  Helena enjoyed listening to the sisters talk, though she was also aware that Fitz and David stood a little apart from the cluster, having a discreet conversation of their own.

  Miss Tallwood was waxing poetic about a fifteenth-century bolt of brocade she’d recently added to her collection when Mrs. Damien cried, “Oh, look, isn’t it that nice Mr. Martin who helped you prove the provenance of your brocade?”

  At the mention of that name, Helena’s heart thudded unpleasantly. Venetia, Millie, and Lexington all glanced at her—David had written to everyone, informing them that Helena had been told the truth of her past.

  “You are right,” said Miss Tallwood. “It is him. And you are his publisher, are you not, Lady Hastings?”

  Helena kept her voice neutral and her answer short. “Yes.”

  Mrs. Damien waved at Mr. Martin. “Hullo, Mr. Martin!”

  At the sound of his name, Mr. Martin glanced in their direction and immediately turned red. He looked about, as if searching for a place to hide. But Mrs. Damien would countenance no such unsociable urges and called out to him again: “Over here, Mr. Martin.”

  Now he had no choice but to approach. Helena, with her face carefully set, presented him to Venetia’s husband, whom he had yet to meet. Mr. Martin stammered through the introductions. She was embarrassed for him and mortified for herself, feeling ever more incredulous that she’d had anything to do with this man beyond a greeting and a handshake.

  She stole a peek at David. He looked tense, but gave her a small lift of the chin as reassurance. The past was the past, said his gesture; no point worrying about what could not be changed.

  “Are you going home, Mr. Martin?” asked Miss Tallwood, oblivious to the undercurrents.

  Mr. Martin wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “I—I am going to call on my mother.”

  “I heard she’d taken ill earlier in the Season,” said Millie kindly. “But I understand she has since completely recovered.”

  “Unfortunately the recovery was not as complete as we would have liked,” replied Mr. Martin, looking distraught. “And now this new bout of fever has her physicians worried.”

  Helena felt an involuntary swell of sympathy for him. He still remembered everything; her coolness to him must be terribly uncomfortable, given how diligently she’d pursued him. And now his mother was so ill he worried for her life….

  “I hope Mrs. Martin will make a speedy recovery,” she said. “And that you will have her company for many years to come.”

  Everyone else also offered their good wishes for Mrs. Martin. Mr. Martin mumbled his gratitude, bowed, and left.

  Helena exhaled in relief at his retreating back. She did not blame him for anything—it was all too evident that she must have been the one to instigate their affair and to pressure him to agree to her demands. All the same, she was glad that, with the Season ending, she would not run into him again for months upon months.

  “Look at the hour,” she said brightly. “It’s almost time for us to board, Lord Hastings. Shall we say our good-byes?”

  Hastings’s heart was still beating fast when he and Helena settled themselves in his private rail coach. Out of view of those still on the platform, her gloved hand took hold of his.

  With her free hand she waved at her family, Miss Tallwood, and Mrs. Damien. “I am no longer thinking of him and neither should you.”

  His was a perilous happiness, but moments like this made all the bouts of fearful despair worthwhile. He joined her in the waving. “I wasn’t thinking of him, but of us.”

  A steam whistle blew shrilly, indicating the train’s imminent departure. On the platform, a rail guard motioned the crowd to move back. She kept on waving. “You weren’t speaking to Fitz about us, were you?”

  “Goodness, no, at least not in the manner you are implying. We were talking about Mrs. Englewood, his old sweetheart.”

  “A sweetheart before he married Millie?”

  He looked at her, surprised. “No one has mentioned her to you yet? Fitz had to give her up when he needed to marry an heiress.”

  She shook her head. “No. Fitz and Millie always speak of their life together as if they’d been in a perfect state of harmony and happiness since the day they first married. I would never have guessed that there was someone else.”

  “There was. Mrs. Englewood came back from India during the Season—this Season—and she and Fitz were ready to set up their own household. He came to his senses only shortly before your accident.”

  She blinked. “I can’t imagine it.”

  “Neither can I quite believe it now, but that was what happened.”

  The train began to move, the rumble of its wheels gaining volume and depth. They waved one last time at everyone on the platform. A knot of travelers, recently detrained and in a hurry to leave the rail station, trudged by. One woman turned her head rather sharply to look in Venetia’s direction, catching Hastings’s attention.

  Mrs. Andrew Martin. Martin was somewhere in the same station, catching a train, but his wife had clearly just come back from a different journey. Hastings supposed such must be the norm for a couple leading separate lives.

  And the lives of the Martins were so separate, a well-dressed man greeted Mrs. Martin’s arrival by taking both her hands in his, however briefly.

  “I remember her!” Helena cried.

  Startled, and with his heart in his mouth, he turned toward Helena. “You remember Mrs. Martin?”

  She could not remember Mrs. Martin without first remembering Andrew Martin.

  “No, I remember Miss Isabelle Pelham, Fitz’s sweetheart.” Her eyes were wide, her hand clasped over her throat. “Is she the one you called Mrs. Englewood just now?”

  “She is.”

  A great many emotions chased across Helena’s features: shock, sadness, wonder. “Fitz loved her so much. And they were so perfect for each other. I remember receiving his cable telling me he’d have to marry a girl he’d met only once—I thought it would destroy him.”

  “It almost did,” Hastings said through suddenly numb lips.

  Fitz—and Helena—had been nineteen when Fitz had inherited the earldom. Was that as far as her memory extended, or would she exclaim, any second now, about her first sight of Andrew Martin?

  “Do you remember meeting Millie?” he asked, testing her memory obliquely.

  She frowned, then shook her head. “No, I still don’t remember her.”

  But before he could exhale in relief, she jerked slightly. Then her eyes narrowed, and she looked at him in a way he remembered all too well, turning his entire person ice cold.

  “I still don’t remember her,” she repeated. “But now I remember you.”

  His expression would have been laughable, had Helena possessed the least desire to laugh. But she felt only disbelief, dismay, and a deep sense of humiliation, everything made twice as atrocious by the faint but unmistakable churn of nausea.

  She remembered him.

  Not the occasion of their first meeting, but instead a solid four years of his visits: summer, Christmas, and Easter. He loved visiting Hampton House, and the only thing she loved about those visits was his eventual departure.

  She’d received Fitz’s cable concerning his impending marriage three weeks after she returned to her school in Switzerland. Before that she’d been at home for Easter holiday, and daily, sometimes hourly, Hastings—she could no
longer think of him as David—had pestered her. Sometimes with merely a leer, more often a lewd flick of the tongue when no one else could see him, and the rest of the time a quickly uttered insult as he passed her in a room or a passage. I see your hair color has not improved over time. Publishing? You are really dying to be a dried-up old maid, aren’t you? When God made you, He must have been thinking of the Netherlands—flat and unexciting.

  And it was only the tip of the iceberg.

  A fifteen-year-old Hastings outside the parlor window of her old house, using a mirror to reflect sunlight into her eyes. And when she’d thrown a glass of water into his face, he’d waved a white flag—except the white flag had been one of her petticoats that he’d stolen from the laundry.

  A sixteen-year-old Hastings telling her that she’d never grow breasts unless she invited him to massage them. It’s the only way to make them bigger, a man’s touch.

  And what had he said about Easton Grange? It has a dungeon, Miss Fitzhugh—my uncle was a good old-fashioned Calvinist, and you know how such men are in the privacy of their own home. I hear there was often a girl in the dungeon, chained to the wall or fastened to a contraption that left her defenseless before a man’s baser wishes.

  I’m not saying I take after my uncle. But if I did, you know what I’d love to do? Go down into that dungeon and torment my little slave when I have a houseful of guests, your family included, thinking warm, grateful thoughts of my hospitality.

  She couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. Her memories stomped over her in a never-ending stampede, Hastings, always smug, always smutty, always determined to reduce her entire existence to a bonfire of unsatisfied spinster desires inside a pair of underwhelming breasts.

  Belatedly she realized her fingers still covered his. She yanked back her hand, shot to her feet, and stormed as far away from him as possible without leaping out of the speeding train.

  “Helena—”

  She glanced back at him. She understood, theoretically, that his expression was sincere and pained, but all she could see was the arrogant, dirty sneer she remembered so well. Her throat burned with revulsion.