October Revenge

by Farmer, Merry

  “No,” he answered, picking at a loose thread on his bedcovers and staring at his hands as he did.

  She let out an impatient breath. “Would you please do me the honor of explaining why we’re sitting here having this conversation instead of making love?”

  He looked at her at last. She could tell it took him a supreme amount of effort to meet her eyes. “I haven’t been with a woman in nearly twenty-five years,” he confessed. “My last experience was….”

  “Difficult?” she finished for him.

  “Horrific,” he answered in a stony hush.

  Angelica’s heart tore in two. On the one hand, she was filled with pity for whatever misery he’d endured with the last woman. On the other, she wasn’t about to go through life with a paper marriage and no children. To top it all, instinct and experience told her that if fear was fed for too long, it crippled one’s soul.

  “Thank you for telling me,” she said. “Now kindly remove your pajamas and consummate this marriage.”

  His eyes snapped wide and he stared at her incredulously. “As if it were all that easy?” he asked.

  He was indignant. He’d raised his voice a fraction. His color was high. But Angelica wanted to laugh and declare victory. It was the first time since their morning by the river that he’d shown even a hint of emotion around her. Whether he liked it or not, she’d cracked through his defenses.

  “Fine,” she said, wriggling and reaching for the hem of her nightgown. “I’ll go first.”

  In one, swift motion, she pulled her nightgown off over her head and tossed it to the floor beside the bed. His gaze dropped straight to her bared breasts, which was another victory. Deny it though he might, he was a man with desires.

  “There,” she said, twisting to face him and pushing the covers down to reveal her hips and thighs and everything between them. “You have a naked woman in your bed who happens to be your wife. What are you going to do about it?”

  He stared at her, taking in the sight of her in full. His blush darkened and his eyes filled with a painful combination of hunger and fear. She would have given anything to peek under the covers hiding him from the waist down to see if he’d grown hard, but she doubted he’d give her that pleasure.

  “Do you have any idea how difficult this is for me?” he asked at last, even more upset.

  She took that burst of emotion as a definite step in the right direction, awkward as it was.

  “Yes,” she said honestly. “I do. But I don’t think delaying the inevitable will help.”

  “How do you know it’s inevitable?” he asked, squirming.

  “Because I want children,” she said. “Plural. And I’m not the sort to go outside of marriage vows to get them. I want babies that look so much like you that anyone with half a mind to question the validity of this marriage will be silenced. I don’t just want my future secured by paper, I want it determined by flesh and blood.”

  His expression was so startled that for a moment Angelica worried she’d gone too far. She stared at him, daring him to look away or make some sort of excuse, but he didn’t. After a silence that felt infinite, he took a breath and reached for the buttons of his pajamas.

  “All right, then,” he said, undoing each button with shaking hands. “Far be it from me to be the instrument of someone’s insecurity. If it’s an heir you need to make you feel comfortable in your place here, an heir you shall get.”

  He shrugged out of his top, tossing it aside. A rush of excitement zipped through Angelica, pooling as desire in her core. Mark had a fine chest, with defined muscles and a pleasing amount of hair, and a flat stomach. She wouldn’t mind his physique pressed against hers at all. He reached under the covers and wriggled, drawing out a pair of pajama bottoms and throwing them aside with a thrilling amount of energy.

  “There,” he snapped, blushing furiously. “Are you ready?”

  She was still mostly exposed to him and spread her arms as if to ask, “What do you think?”

  He hesitated again, but whatever argument was going on in his mind, he settled it and rolled toward her, still hidden under the layers of sheets and blankets. He reached for her, tugging her under him and positioning himself between her legs.

  Angelica’s eyes popped wide at the sensation of his large and very much erect penis pressing against her thigh. So much for worrying he was impotent. And although she had very little first-hand knowledge to compare, she was reasonably certain he had nothing at all to be ashamed of. In fact, she would have given her eye teeth to peek under the covers to see just how big he was. That or to have the courage to reach between them to stroke him. Instinct told her his courage was fueled solely by irritation and the need to prove that she couldn’t best him, so she kept her hands by her sides.

  “Are you a virgin?” he asked, planting his hands on either side of her shoulders, already panting, though nothing had happened.

  “As a matter of fact, I am,” she replied.

  “Then I’ll probably hurt you,” he said with a pinch of regret in his face.

  “You won’t,” she insisted, meeting and holding his gaze. “I promise.”

  A flash of something profound filled his eyes. He shifted, bringing his staff close to where it needed to be but delaying.

  “This isn’t going to be pleasurable,” he said with an increasing feeling of restlessness. “I’m only capable of the mechanics at best.”

  “I’m not complaining,” she said.

  She raised her arms to rest her hands on his sides. He flinched, but when she stroked up and then circled around to rub his back, he relaxed and let out a breath.

  Then he began to tremble.

  “Nothing bad is going to happen,” she told him in a soft voice, continuing to caress his back. “It’s all right.”

  “It isn’t,” he insisted, stiff and suspended above her. “Nothing will ever be all right ever again.”

  “It will,” she said. “I’m here.”

  She shifted her hips, opening to him and attempting to lead him to her entrance. When that failed, she reached between them, grasping him with a quick intake of breath, and guiding him to where he needed to be.

  The resistance he’d been holding onto broke. With his eyes squeezed shut, he pushed into her with a hiss of breath that became a heart-rending groan as he sheathed himself fully. His eyes popped open, though his gaze wasn’t focused. Angelica swallowed her shock at the sharp moment of pain his invasion brought, concentrating on the wonder of being filled by him instead. It was the oddest, potentially most amazing feeling, to welcome him inside her body. And while it didn’t come with the same sort of luxurious pleasure she imagined the act was supposed to have, it melted her heart all the same.

  Particularly when Mark began to move inside of her, as if driven by some unseen and slightly malevolent force. Tension rippled from him, not just in the way his muscles worked to power his increasingly swift thrusts. He wore the emotions coursing through him so close to the surface that Angelica could feel fear and longing and regret in the lines of his body, hear yearning and reluctance in the sighs and sobs that escaped from his lungs, and taste anxiety and arousal in the sweat that broke out on his skin as he bent close enough for her to kiss his neck. She embraced him with her arms and legs, closing her eyes and pouring as much of her heart out to him as she could.

  “Shh,” she whispered as the sounds he made turned desperate. “It’s all right.”

  It was more than all right. In spite of the intensity of his emotions, her body was coming alive. Perfunctory or not, his thrusts were arousing in the extreme. She could feel the potential they had, knew that, given time, they could be extraordinary lovers. They just needed to get over the first hurdle.

  “Oh, God,” he gasped, tensing even more, his thrusts turning frantic. She knew enough about the act to know he was close to finishing, so she held him even tighter, praying he could feel the affection that his vulnerability raised in her. “Oh, God,” he breathed again, followed by a
handful of wordless cries that culminated in a sharp gasp. That gasp turned into a long, mournful sigh as his thrusts slowed.

  He came to a complete stop, sagging on top of her. Angelica continued to embrace him with her whole body, rubbing his back and whispering to him, “There you go. It’s over. You’re all right. It was just fine.” A sense of pride in him filled her. It wasn’t the emotion she expected to feel after making love to her husband for the first time, but there it was. He’d done something extraordinary for him, and she’d been there to help him through.

  “I’m sorry,” Mark moaned, slipping out of her and attempting to roll to the side.

  “Stay where you are,” she cooed softly, brushing a hand through his hair as he buried his face in the pillow beside her. “Rest now.”

  He nodded and stayed in her arms, though he rolled to his side and into what turned out to be a much more comfortable position for both of them. Angelica continued to stroke his head and even kissed his neck and cheek. Maybe she was as mad as he was, but with their consummation came a feeling of such protectiveness that the Mongol hoards could have come after him and she would have fought them off single-handedly with a fireiron. Mark was hers now, and woe to anyone who tried to hurt him.

  Chapter 7

  Shayles would laugh at him. Of that much Mark was certain. He sat across the breakfast table from Angelica three days after their marriage, sullenly eating crepes, utterly convinced that if Shayles were seated between the two of them, he would be laughing his filthy head off. Because in spite of his new, beautiful, vibrant, and commanding wife, in spite of having shattered his vow of lifelong celibacy on their wedding night, in spite of all appearances, Mark had never felt so emasculated in his life.

  “I thought we might go for a walk after breakfast,” Angelica said with a smile, pouring herself another cup of tea. “The weather is simply gorgeous this morning.”

  Mark glanced to the window and the sun streaming in. A breeze ruffled the curtains, and the sweet trill of birdsong flowed in along with the sun. Angelica had insisted on opening as many windows to air out the grand, old house as possible. Styx approved. He sat on the windowsill, pouncing on a bug that was attempting to escape into the woodwork.

  Mark looked back to Angelica. She was the personification of the beauty and light that filled nature, making it merry. She was overwhelmingly gorgeous in a dress of pale lavender that set off the tone of her skin and the depth in her eyes.

  “No, thank you,” he said with brittle politeness, forcing his gaze to his plate.

  He felt more than saw her frown of frustration, imagined her soft lips pressing in a line instead of glancing up to see it.

  “I would enjoy your company on my morning constitutional,” she went on, her voice far less disapproving than he expected. “Now that Lavinia and Armand have returned home.”

  Mark tensed. Lavinia and Armand had gone home the day before, leaving him and Angelica alone. He would have begged them to stay and continue as a buffer between him and his tumultuous feelings for his new wife, if begging wouldn’t have made him look like a lunatic.

  “I thought I might paint,” he said, poking at his last crepe with a fork. The action caused cream to ooze out of one end, which sent a wave of heat and nausea through him.

  He put down his fork, though he continued to stare at the crepe instead of lifting his eyes to Angelica. He’d fucked her. He still couldn’t get over it. He’d actually gone through with it. His gut clenched with shame at the memory. She’d goaded him into shoving himself inside of her like a common libertine. And animal that he was, he’d been unable to stop until he’d spilled his seed inside of her.

  Which was what she wanted. It was necessary if he was to give her the children she desired. But the entire time he’d been with her, carnal instinct overpowering him and robbing him of sense until he’d come, he could think of nothing but the countless women Shayles had abused and debased while making him watch, the seedy aura of a thousand orgies he’d been goaded into observing, and, worst of all, the terrible night when it had all started.

  He heard her screams reverberating in his head, begging him to make it stop, even as Angelica’s gentle, steadying arms wrapped around him.

  “Mark, stop.” Angelica’s sudden, loud clap jolted him out of his horrific thoughts.

  He jumped, his eyes snapping up to meet hers. Only then did he notice that his heart was racing and a cold sweat had broken out on his back and forehead. He must have looked a fright, because Angelica’s eyes were wide and full of concern.

  “I thought I’d lost you there for a moment,” she said, letting out a breath of relief. “Care to tell me where you went?”

  “No.” He pushed back from the table and stood, his chair scraping so loudly that Styx flinched and jumped out the window. “Excuse me.”

  He marched toward the doorway and into the hall, his head spinning and his lungs tight. He should have gone outside to suck in as much air as possible, but his footsteps took him into the conservatory instead. By the time he reached the tall windows at the far end of the room, he was shaking furiously and his knees threatened to give out. He leaned against the wall near the window and rubbed a hand over his face.

  Unsurprisingly, Angelica strode into the room a few seconds later, approaching him as though he were a skittish horse that she was intent on taming. She didn’t keep a respectable distance either. She marched right up to him, standing toe-to-toe with him, and rested her hands on his chest.

  She stared into his eyes with all the protective fierceness of a mother lion defending her cubs. And damn him, but he liked it. He craved it. He wanted to sink into her arms and rest his head against her bosom, as if she were the mother he never really had. It was humiliating. He was a grown man, dammit, an earl, a member of the House of Lords. He’d graduated Oxford University with highest honors and run Blackmoor Close singlehandedly since he was eighteen. He’d witnessed more horrors than he would ever be able to comprehend. He should not crumble to dust at the thought of a woman holding him, stroking him, and telling him everything would be all right.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked in a voice filled with the patience of a saint.

  “No,” he answered honestly.

  All the same, he raised his hands hesitantly and rested them on her waist. She wasn’t as slender as some of the more ridiculous women he’d known who tight-laced their corsets, but he liked the feeling of muscle and sinew in her form. He’d liked it a little too much when their bodies were entwined the other night. Which was why he’d flat-out refused to repeat their love-making, even though Angelica had taken to sleeping in his bed. Thank God she hadn’t pressed the matter, because he knew full well he wouldn’t have been able to resist if she’d wanted his seed inside her again.

  He had to resist. His sanity depended on resisting her allure, both sensual and sentimental.

  Hard on the heels of that thought came a scoffing laugh in his mind. He was being ridiculous. Of course he should bow to her and accept her affection. He was going to spend the rest of his life with her.

  “No,” Angelica said. Mark blinked, forcing himself to focus again. At first he thought she was simply repeating his answer, but the firmness in her eyes and the way she’d moved her hands to grip his upper arms said something else. “Don’t slip away on me like that anymore. I can see you going because your face goes all blank and expressionless.” She paused, tilted her head slightly, and went on with, “Lavinia says you do that all the time, that you turn into a statue when you’re in an uncomfortable situation.”

  Mark’s brow shot up. Lavinia had noticed? Goddammit, he’d spent twenty-five years working to perfect an appearance of detachment, and in the scant time he’d known his cousin-by-marriage, she’d seen right through him.

  “Women have an extraordinary amount of perception,” he mumbled, unsure if he felt angry at the idea or ashamed. Or impressed.

  Angelica grinned. “Yes, we do.” She lifted to her toes and kiss
ed him lightly on the lips. “And don’t forget it.”

  Fuck it all, he was like putty in her hands. His body flooded with warmth and it took every faculty of concentration he had not to sway into her, falling at her feet and promising to do anything and everything for her if she would just love him. It was disgraceful. Shayles would laugh until he soiled himself if he could see it.

  “I have an idea.” Angelica stood straighter, taking a half step back. “Why don’t you gather your painting things and bring them outside. The light is fantastic today.”

  “No,” he said, initially on instinct, but gathering logic to back up the reaction. “The easel is too cumbersome, and I don’t have the proper equipment to tote that kind of paint around.”

  “Fair enough,” she said, her acquiescence making him feel as though he’d earned a gold star from his nanny. “What about bringing your sketch pad out?”

  “I’d rather not,” he answered, stepping away from the wall and her. His heart rate had slowed and he’d stopped shaking and sweating. The attack his memories had brought on was fading, leaving him in an odd sort of limbo. “A walk would be agreeable,” he said, not quite able to meet her eyes, considering a walk was her idea and he was, in essence, merely giving in to her.

  “Perfect,” she said. “Can we exit to the garden through these doors?” she asked, marching across to the French doors, which stood open.

  There was no need to answer since the answer was obvious, so Mark simply followed her out into the sunshine. He offered his arm as they started down the path that would take them through the heart of the French garden, on to the rose garden, and through the meadow toward the river.

  She glanced at him as they walked, as though she expected something. Mark couldn’t imagine what was going on in her mind. He scrambled to find some topic of conversation to make their walk less awkward. Nothing came to mind. He’d spent too long saying nothing, actively trying to blend into the background so that Shayles and his cronies—of which he was, arguably, one—wouldn’t notice him. He’d been too afraid of being thought of as one of them by the women they’d abused to dare speak to them. Part of him wished he had now. Perhaps then he would have a clue how to be with Angelica.