For Love Alone

by Shirlee Busbee

  At present the newlyweds were comfortably settled in Ives’s well-sprung coach and were bowling along the road several miles from London on their way to Harrington Chase situated near the county town of Chelmsford in Essex. Ashby and Sophy’s personal maid, Peggy, along with a few trunks, had been sent ahead.

  As they had left London, Sophy kept up a lively monologue, chattering gaily about the wedding and the guests and how kind it had been of Lady Beckworth to agree to stay at the Grayson town house for a few days. It was obvious that she was nervous and Ives decided to let her prattle on, leaning comfortably back against the maroon velvet squabs of the coach and adding a comment now and then when she seemed to run out of steam.

  Sophy was nervous. Memories of Simon’s brutal rape in a coach such as this one within hours of their marriage filled her mind with the most terrifying images. She sat bolt upright as far from Ives as she could get, her gaze flickering restlessly about and certainly never straying in the direction of her very new, very large husband. She wished desperately that she still had her pistol. What she said she had no idea, the compulsion to keep talking driving her to utter the most inane comments.

  Ives let her run on for quite some time, thinking eventually she would wind down; but when it became apparent that was not going to happen, he leaned across the narrow space that separated them, and said quietly, “Sophy, stop it. I do not know what you fear, but let me reassure you I have no intention of falling upon you like a ravening beast.”

  She jumped at his touch, but hearing his measured tones and seeing his expression, some of her nervousness disappeared. Risking a glance in his direction, she said softly, “You must think me very silly.”

  In the fading light he smiled. “No. I think that you are adorable.”

  Sophy blushed. Simon had never paid her any compliments, and she was not quite certain how to react. Casting about for a safe subject, she said, “Tell me about Harrington Chase.”

  He shrugged. “There is not much to tell. It is an Elizabethan manor house that has been in my family for many generations. The park that surrounds it is noted for its beauty. I hope that you will like it.”

  “Did you grow up there?” she asked curiously.

  Ives shook his head. “No. My father was the second son, and I grew up at the vicarage.”

  A teasing smile crossed Sophy’s face. “Never tell me you are the son of a vicar?”

  Ives laughed and proceeded to change the subject, distracting her with stories of his days in the cavalry. It was not many hours later that the coach slowed and began to travel down the smooth carriageway leading to Harrington Chase.

  Sophy had relaxed with Ives as the time had passed and he had made no overt moves toward her. At least, she told herself, she would not suffer the degrading experience of having her second marriage consummated on the seat of a coach! But as they neared their destination, she could feel her tension increase.

  Simon’s lovemaking had filled her with revulsion, and while there was little about Ives that bore a resemblance to her first husband, she could not help being uneasy about the coming hours. She swallowed painfully, aware of the dampness on her hands and the churning in her stomach. In a short time, Ives would come to her and make her his wife in the fullest sense of the word, and she was dreading it. Dear God, please, don’t let it be too awful.

  Despite the lateness of the hour, the house was ablaze with light, but Sophy had little time for first impressions. Ives hustled her out of the coach and escorted her up the broad steps and into the house. They were met by a smiling butler and an efficient-looking lady of indeterminate age who was introduced as the housekeeper, Mrs. Chandler. A moment later, Ives still at her elbow, Sophy was whisked up the stairs and into her suite of rooms.

  His arm resting on the pretty pink-marble fireplace mantel, Ives watched her as she wandered around the spacious sitting room adjoining her bedchamber. Her traveling gown just happened to be in a deep shade of rose, and it complemented the rose-and-cream furnishings of the room. Standing in the middle of the lovely Aubusson carpet, woven in the same shades, Sophy looked over at him, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

  “It is a very nice room,” she said politely, her eyes everywhere but on him, her tenseness almost palpable.

  “Yes, it is,” Ives agreed, a teasing glint in his eyes. “And you will find that it is a very nice house and that you have a very nice bedroom, too. The morning room is considered very nice also.”

  She glanced at him. “Are you mocking me?” she asked suspiciously.

  He smiled, a slow, warm smile that did odd things to her heart. “Perhaps a trifle, sweetheart.”

  Crossing to her, he took one of her hands and dropped a kiss on the back of it. Steadily meeting her gaze, he said quietly, “Sophy, I know that your first husband was a brute. I am not, despite what you may have observed lately, the same sort of man. You have nothing to fear from me. I only want you to be happy.”

  She regarded him warily. “And if I told you,” she finally said, “that the only thing that would make me happy would be to sleep alone in my own bed, you would heed my words?”

  He sighed. “Don’t be a fool, my dear. I intend for you to be my wife in every sense of the word.” Again he hesitated, his eyes searching hers. Reluctantly he said, “Considering the circumstances surrounding our marriage, I would understand if you wished for a few days before I come to your bed.”

  Sophy gaped at him, hardly daring to believe what she was hearing, but he seemed sincere. She almost fell on his neck with gratitude, but then she reminded herself that it was only a few days’ grace, not forever.

  She had always faced her demons head-on, and there was no use postponing the evil moment. She would just as soon know how bad it was going to be as soon as possible. She turned away and muttered, “No. I will not put you off.” With paralyzing honesty, she added, “I would prefer to get it over with.”

  Ives burst out laughing, his green eyes dancing with genuine amusement. “Oh, sweetheart! ‘Get it over with’? Could you not garner a bit more enthusiasm?”

  Ruffled, Sophy glared at him. “I never found the act pleasurable. I believe that it is much overrated,” she admitted gruffly, her cheeks stinging. “S-simon claimed that I was not very good, that he would as soon lie with a board as with me.”

  His expression gentle, Ives pulled her into his arms. “I am not Simon, Sophy.” He kissed her sweetly, his mouth soft and coaxing.

  Helplessly Sophy felt herself responding, a galaxy of bewildering sensations and emotions exploding through her. When he finally lifted his mouth from hers, her lips unconsciously clung to his, and there was a dazed look in her eyes.

  “You are no board, my dear,” he said thickly. “But even if you were, I think perhaps that Simon was a very poor carpenter.”

  Regretfully, he put her from him and, pushing her toward the door which led to her bedchamber, murmured, “Now go. Your maid awaits you. I shall have a tray prepared for us and join you shortly.”

  Sophy obeyed him, walking like a zombie through the doorway and into her bedchamber. Greeted by a shyly smiling Peggy, with great difficulty Sophy forced herself to concentrate on the present and not the incredible sweetness of Ives’s kiss.

  In the large dressing room, just off the bedroom, a bath had been prepared for her. A filmy gown and a gossamer silk robe lay across one of a pair of ivory-damask-covered chairs. Only half aware of what was happening, she allowed Peggy to help bathe and perfume her, the spicy scent of carnations and lilies filling the air. After slipping into the amber-hued gown and bronze-colored robe, she loosed her hair from its crown of curls and Peggy brushed until it shone like newly minted gold in the candlelight. With a whispered wish for her mistress’s happiness, the maid disappeared.

  Seated before the satinwood dressing table, Sophy stared blindly into the mirror, her mind in chaos. I am married, she thought dazedly. To Ives.

  As if she had conjured him up, his image suddenly appeared in th
e mirror. He was wearing a heavy, deep purple silk robe, loosely belted at the waist, and Sophy was painfully conscious that he was naked beneath it.

  For a long time they regarded each other in the mirror, then Ives smiled crookedly, and murmured, “Well, sweetheart? Are you ready to ‘get it over with’?”

  She nodded, moving like a dreamer when Ives helped her from the stool, obligingly allowing him to guide her into her bedchamber.

  It was a lovely room, with soaring ceilings and gleaming crystal chandeliers; a bank of tall, wide windows were against one wall. Another Aubusson carpet in the same shades of rose, cream, and green lay on the floor. The imposing canopied bed was draped in a beautiful shade of palest turquoise silk. Despite the season, a small fire leaped merrily on the hearth of a fireplace with a green-marble mantel. Several chairs and a sofa upholstered in the same pale turquoise silk as the bed were arranged cozily around the fireplace. There were delicate satinwood tables scattered about the grand room, and silver candelabras had been placed here and there, the soft glow of candlelight enhancing the beauty of their surroundings.

  But the sight of such elegance did not still the sudden terror in Sophy’s breast, and, almost desperately, she seized upon the mundane sight of a silver tray heaped with food and drink.

  “Oh! How wonderful! Food. I am simply starved!” she said breathlessly, hurrying over to the table where the tray was situated.

  His eyes on her slender form, Ives murmured, “Yes, so am I. Absolutely famished.”

  She flashed him a meaningless smile and busily piled her plate with sliver-thin slices of roast chicken and veal, tiny buttered spring potatoes and peas, stewed mushrooms, and potted lamprey. There was also an array of sweets and biscuits, as well as wine, brandy, and she allowed Ives to pour her a glass of sherry.

  They ate in front of the fireplace, Sophy’s fears and nervousness having returned unabated. It was not an uncomfortable meal, but both of them were almost relieved when the last morsel had been consumed, the last sip of wine swallowed, and the plates and glasses placed on the table.

  Sitting like a little girl, her back ramrod straight, her knees pressed tightly together, and her hands folded in her lap, Sophy stared blankly at the fire.

  Seated in a chair across from her, Ives sighed, his thoughts of Lord Marlowe vicious. He considered again the idea of allowing her a few days in which to become more resigned to their marriage—and him in her bed—but finally discarded the idea. He had offered her that option and she had declined it. And he was not that altruistic. He wanted her. She was his wife.

  Standing up, Ives approached her. Putting out a hand, he said, “Bed, sweetheart?”

  Sophy jumped and stared up at him resignedly. Cursing Simon a thousand times, he gently pulled her to her feet. His hands moving slowly to her shoulders, he kissed her, softly and warmly.

  “I am not,” he said against her quivering mouth, “Simon. Will you please trust me to bring us both pleasure?”

  Sophy bent her head, her curls tickling his chin. “Why should I trust you?” she asked painfully.

  Ives sighed. “I can offer you no reason, sweetheart. But I would ask you this—have I ever done anything to hurt you so far?”

  Sophy shook her head, realizing with astonishment that it was rather enjoyable standing here in his arms, his warm, broad body pressed next to hers, his breath gently stirring the curls at the nape of her neck. When he suddenly bent and kissed her there, a shiver that had nothing to do with fear snaked down her spine. His hands moved over her slowly, kneading her stiff shoulders and stroking her back, and as the minutes passed and he did nothing more than lightly explore her shoulders and back, some of her tenseness lessened.

  Resigned to the consummation of their marriage, Sophy offered no objection when Ives’s lips found hers once more, and he began to kiss her. There was nothing brutal or displeasing about his kiss, his mouth sliding softly, teasingly over hers, his tongue tantalizing her as it dipped and then receded.

  An odd sensation began to build within her, a feeling she had never experienced before; sun-heated wine seemed to flow in her veins, and, low in her belly, a shockingly sweet fire seemed to have burst into being. She was distinctly startled to discover that she found nothing but pleasure in his embrace and that she wanted to touch him, to run her hands over him as he was doing to her.

  She had never willingly embraced Simon, and, tentatively, she put her arms around Ives, finding that she liked the feel of his hard muscles beneath her hands, liked her breasts nudging his chest. Instinctively she pressed closer, marveling at the solid width of him and the enormous, seductive heat radiating from his big body.

  Taking her uncertain embrace as encouragement, Ives allowed a little of his tightly leashed hunger to show, his mouth hardening with passion, his hands cupping her bottom, pulling her against his aching, swollen shaft.

  She did not move away from him, but he felt a slight tension invade her body, felt the resistance that had not been there a moment ago. Suppressing a groan, wondering how he was going to survive the night, he moved his hands back to her shoulders and, reluctantly lifting his mouth from hers, stared down into her wary features.

  “I want you, Sophy,” he said huskily. “I will not always be able to be gentle with you. I will try to be, but there is such a hunger within me that I fear once unleashed...” He swallowed, his hands tightening on her slender shoulders. “Do you understand me?”

  Sophy searched his taut, dark features. He would not, she suddenly realized, deliberately inflict pain on her, but it was clear that he had his limits. Her eyes never leaving his, she said pitifully, “Please, just do not hurt me.”

  “Never, sweetheart. Never,” he muttered, and pulled her into his arms once more.

  There was no going back for either of them after that, and in her heart, Sophy admitted that she would not have turned aside if she could have. She wanted the unexpected magic he wove around them to continue. She desperately needed to find out if all men were as brutal as her first husband.

  Ives kissed her a long time, standing there before the fire, his hands almost floating over her body, his touch so light, so gentle that Sophy had no cause to fear him. His kisses were warm and coaxing, his mouth seductively sipping at hers, his teeth, oh so teasingly nibbling at her soft bottom lip. Like a bee seeking honey, Sophy unconsciously pressed closer, her back arching as his warm hand slid downward to her hips, her breasts full and aching as they pushed against his broad chest. His lips continued to torment her, his tongue teasing hers, just as his touch teased her, the slow brush of his fingers up and down her spine making her tingle and yearn for more.

  When one of his hands suddenly cupped her breast and his thumb moving burningly across her nipple, she gasped and unconsciously surged closer, almost begging him to continue his caress. She felt the smile on his lips and, stunning both of them, bit him in frustration.

  His hand tightened around her breast and against her mouth, he muttered, “Be careful, sweetheart. I give as good as I get.”

  Sophy trembled but not with fear, and, daringly, her tongue slipped into his mouth. Oh, but he tasted sweet. And dangerous. And so very exciting.

  A shudder went through her. This was sorcery, she thought giddily, emotions she had hardly dreamed of springing up through her. Sorcery and black magic. As her tongue probed and slid along his, nothing had ever prepared her for the pleasure, the intensely primitive sensations such actions could give, and another, stronger shudder shook her. Ives’s groan, the rapid increase of his breathing, and the increasingly frantic motions of his hands as they roamed over her revealed that he, too, shared in this dark sorcery. That the emotions roiling within her were raging within him. It was thrilling knowledge.

  When Ives suddenly crushed her to him, and his tongue boldly followed hers back into her mouth, Sophy was stunned at the burst of pleasure that exploded deep within her. His erotic probings inflamed her further, pulling her deeper into the spell that had overtaken them.
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  She was hardly aware that he had slipped her robe off and dragged her silken gown down to free one breast, hardly aware that it was her naked flesh his clever fingers shaped and caressed. She only knew that she had never felt anything like it before in her life, and that she wanted it to continue.

  Slowly, tenderly, Ives lured her deeper into desire, his hands and mouth moving voluptuously over her, showing her that there was indeed much pleasure to be gained by another’s touch. Even when he carefully lowered her to the rug before the fire and tossed aside his robe, she barely protested, too enthralled by all that she was feeling.

  Not even when his lips left hers and slid tormentingly down to her breast did she object. The hot, sweet sensation of his mouth closing over her breast made her sigh and arch up against his nuzzling lips. As he pulled and nibbled on her swollen nipple, pure heat streaked from her breast to her womb, and she became aware of an ache between her thighs, an ache that seemed to encompass her entire body, leaving her conscious of nothing but the ache and the increasing need to assuage it.

  Ah, Jesu, but she was sweet, Ives thought fleetingly, his own passion inflaming him almost to the point of madness. The need to seek relief from the relentless demands of his own body warred with the longing to move slowly, to tease and tantalize his reluctant bride into sharing the same hunger that consumed him.

  His hand bunched up her gown, sliding it upward over her hip. Her thigh was warm and firm beneath his touch, and his fingers wandered, brazenly exploring the smooth flesh he had laid bare. Fondling her buttock, he pulled her to him, helplessly pressing himself against her, letting her feel the heated, solid length of him, letting her know how hungry he was for her.

  Sophy stiffened at the insistent touch of his rigid member against her thigh, memories of Simon battering her, hurting her with just such a weapon, darting through her mind. Instinctively she pushed against Ives, terror driving her. “No,” she panted. “No. Let me go! You will not hurt me again!”