by Shana Galen
“I’ve felt worse falling into bed.” He chuckled, liking the feel of her weight splayed on top of him.
“Then there is no reason to stop.” Still on top of him, she kissed him again. He could feel the softness of her breasts against his chest and the warmth of her legs tangled with his. This time he thrust his hands into her hair and pulled at the pins holding it in place. It tumbled down around them, creating a dark curtain.
She rose slightly and pushed it over one shoulder. “Now look what you have done.”
“Exactly what I wanted to do. I’ve missed seeing your hair down.”
“You will not miss it when we both have mouthfuls.”
“There’s a solution for that.” He slid her off him and onto the plush blue rug. Then he took her place, levering his hands on either side of her, careful not to crush her.
It had been a long time since he’d been in this position, since he’d had a woman under him. Though he wasn’t a youth any longer, he had the urge to toss up her skirts and plunge into her. Thankfully, he was a man of age and experience. He could wait until she wanted him as much as he wanted her. He knew how to stoke her desire.
She looked up at him, her eyes dark and soft with desire. The fire made her skin look dark gold, and he kissed her eyelids, then her cheeks, then made his way slowly to her mouth. She returned his kiss eagerly, her hands on his back, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Her breath came quicker as the kiss continued, as he explored her mouth more thoroughly.
Finally, she broke away. “I cannot breathe.”
While she gasped for breath, he touched his lips to her neck and her throat. Her pulse beat fast and her skin tasted slightly of salt and smelled of the rosewater soap she’d used in her bath. His lips trailed lower, to her collarbone, and she moaned softly. It was impossible not to notice the rise and fall of her ample breasts. The gown was cut modestly, but it didn’t hide the shape of her.
He kissed the skin just above the plump flesh of her breasts, and her hands dug deeper into his shoulders.
Leaning on one elbow, he brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek. “You’re so beautiful.” He didn’t know why he said it except that he couldn’t not say it. He could hardly believe what he saw when he looked at her.
She touched her cheeks. “I must be as red as an apple.”
“You look good with color in your cheeks.” He paused. He should go on as he had, but it all seemed too good to be true. “You do know, you don’t have to do this with me. It’s not expected. You can stay here, and I won’t expect anything of you.”
She blinked at him, seeming confused.
“I must seem an old man to you. I’m not about to take advantage of your situation.”
Suddenly, she pushed him off her, and this time his head hit a chair. He saw stars and blinked the pain away.
“Did that hurt?” she asked.
“Yes.” He rubbed the growing knot.
“Good.”
“Good?” He sat. “What does that mean?”
“It means you insult me. Do you think I am feigning how I feel? I can hardly take a breath for the pounding of my heart. Do you think me an actress like the ones on stage tonight?”
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
She waved a hand. “I do not know what that means. You all but said I was pretending. I am not. And if you do not want me, you can just say so.”
Benedict wasn’t certain how everything had gone so wrong. “I do want you,” he protested.
She folded her arms across her bosom—the bosom his hands itched to reveal and touch. “Oh, really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Then why are you all coolness and composure while I am hot and striving for breath?”
“I...” Did she want him slobbering over her? This evening had taken a turn he hadn’t expected. “I’m trying to keep a sense of control. I don’t want to go too far.”
“I will tell you what too far is.”
He had no doubt of that.
“You have not gone nearly far enough. And another thing.”
He raised his brows.
“You are not an old man. You are stronger and fitter than most men half your age. I wanted to marry you because I needed a man, not a boy. That is still the case.”
She stood then and swished her skirts so they smacked him in the face. “Good night, senhor.”
It was the senhor that did it. As she flounced away, Benedict grasped her about the waist and dragged her back.
Nine
“We know what we are, but not what we may be.”
Hamlet, William Shakespeare
SHE THOUGHT ABOUT PROTESTING the way he pulled her back down and onto his lap. But there was nothing to protest when this was exactly what she wanted.
“So I am senhor again, am I?”
“Yes.” She notched her chin up.
She was still angry that he should think she would ever feel compelled to submit to his advances because she thought he would put her out on the street if she didn’t. She knew him better than that. Did he not know her at all? She’d killed a man rather than submit to his advances.
There were many times in the intervening weeks when she’d wondered if it would have been easier to simply allow Don Felipe to have his way with her. But she didn’t regret what she’d done. She hadn’t wanted that man touching her. She had only ever wanted Benedict.
“I see what you are doing,” he said, his lips close to her ear, his breath making her tremble. “I am trying to make certain I don’t take advantage of you. That is no reason to treat me coldly.”
She turned to face him. “And I see what you are doing, senhor.”
His blue eyes burned with fire. “And what’s that?”
“Making excuses for doing what you really want.” She prayed that was true. But she didn’t think she’d mistaken the way he looked at her, touched her. “I am no child. I will not allow you to do anything I do not want. I thought you knew me better.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Finally, he chuckled and looked away. “You’re right. I do know you better than that. You’d have me groveling in pain. Tell me then, Catarina, what do you want from me?”
She gave him a saucy look. “Why do you not show me what you can do, and I will tell you whether I like it or not.”
His hands tightened on her waist. “Oh, you are playing with fire, little Cat. I’m a soldier, and there’s nothing I like better than a challenge.”
“If I had a gauntlet—that is the word, yes?—I would throw it at your feet.”
He took her face in his hands. “And I’d pick it up.” He kissed her, his kiss just as intoxicating as it had been earlier, but this time there was an intensity in the way he moved his mouth over hers, the way his hands held her, the way his body tightened against her. Her heart leapt into her throat, and though she’d never admit it, she was a little frightened. Frightened and thrilled.
He drew her down onto the plush rug and lay down beside her, still kissing her. His hands threaded through her hair, winding it around his hand until he forced her neck gently back. He kissed her arched throat and she murmured her approval. He nipped and licked and teased lower until he reached the bodice of her dress. Her skin pebbled with anticipation as his hand traced the path his mouth had taken. And then moved lower.
His fingers brushed over the silk of her dress, over the material covering her breasts. She shivered as his light caresses drifted over her. He didn’t squeeze or grope. She desperately wanted to better feel his touch. It was muted through the layers of material.
“I’d like to take this dress off you.”
“I would like that too,” she said. She freed her hair from his hand. “But not here. Take me to your bed chamber.”
He winced as though in pain. “You don’t know how tempting that offer is.”
“I have some idea. That is why I made the offer.”
“Catarina.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “I do like your honesty,
even if it surprises me.”
“And what is surprising about me being honest that I want to feel your skin on mine?”
“Nothing, except most women do not talk like that.” He closed his eyes then opened them. “Listen, before I take you to my chamber, I think we had better make some rules. I don’t want to do anything to lose your trust.”
She blew out a breath, his mention of breaking the fragile trust she had given him making her belly churn with fear. “Rules? I want to kiss you and touch you. Why do we need rules?”
“Because if you go to my bed chamber, you jeopardize your right to annulment. Right now you can say that we never considered the marriage permanent and never believed it would lead to the creation of children. I only married you to save you from your circumstances at the time. Further, you can argue that at the time of the marriage you lacked the necessary discretion to consent to the marriage. Not that I forced you, but that there were outside factors that made you feel compelled. But if you and I become intimate, I can’t, in good conscience, testify to any of that.” He gave her a regretful look. “Our situation changes once we agree to act as husband and wife.”
“But the annulment is based on what our intentions were before the marriage occurred.”
“I think whether or not I consent to the annulment will also bear some weight. And if there’s even a remote possibility that you are carrying my child, I won’t feel right agreeing to an annulment.” His jaw tightened, and she could see he was determined on this point.
“It might not even matter, being that you are Protestant and I am Catholic.”
“I’m no religious scholar, but I am a war hero.” He smiled as though the sobriquet didn’t fit him well. “And if I oppose this annulment, it will be all but impossible to obtain. Which leads to my question, do you want to give up your request for an annulment?”
She opened her mouth to say yes. She’d only wanted the annulment to save herself and her sister from Juan Carlos’s threats. Those threats were still very real, but now she’d rather have them come to fruition than be forced to marry Miguel and have to give up her business.
But what if she remained married to Benedict? He might want her, she could believe that now, but he didn’t love her. How would this be any different than a marriage her father arranged for her? She might be desired for her body, but she wanted to be desired for herself—her mind, her talents, her whole being. No man had ever cared for her like that—not her father, not Don Felipe, not Benedict.
And could she trust that if she stayed, she wouldn’t lose everything she had worked for? Wouldn’t she have to give up her business? Benedict said she should open a shop in London, but did he realize what owing a shop entailed? She worked long hours. She wouldn’t be sitting home waiting when he came back from his business for the day. She’d manage the shop, not his household. Her father had thought no sin worse than his wife not giving her attention to every detail of his household.
Perhaps in remaining married to Benedict she would lose what little freedom she still had. But if she survived whatever plans Juan Carlos had made and then obtained an annulment from Benedict, she’d be free to do as she wished. That prospect was quite appealing. She never wanted to go back to the time when she had been forced to submit to her father’s whims. And she did not want to submit to a husband’s whims either, not even one that fired her blood.
Part of her hoped that Benedict was the sort of man who would never require her to submit, but could she really afford to trust him? If she was wrong about him, she and Ines would suffer.
“I see you are thinking everything through,” Benedict said quietly. “Perhaps you need more time to think.”
She wanted more time in his arms, but all the passion she had felt a few minutes before had ebbed away as thoughts tumbled about in her head. What did she want? What was her future?
Finally, she said, “I think I should go to my bed chamber for tonight.”
She wanted him to argue, wanted him to push her back to the floor and kiss her again. She could make that happen, but he’d made it complicated now. She could not have him and her freedom.
He rose and offered a hand, helping her to her feet. “Good night then, Mrs. Draven.”
His voice was like a cold rain washing over her. She gritted her teeth and gave him her back. “Good night.”
BUT IT WASN’T A GOOD night. She tossed and turned so much Ines woke near dawn, hit her with a pillow, and begged her to be still. Since Catarina couldn’t sleep any longer, she pulled on her dressing robe and went into the blue parlor with her bobbins and pillow.
The small desk in the room was cleared, so she laid her pillow there and took out the piece of Catarina lace she’d been working on. She would finish it and then work on a handkerchief for Lady Philomena. She arranged her pins and her bobbins then began to move the bobbins so that the attached thread formed the intricate patterns she wanted. She worked quickly, lining the bobbins up by pairs, crossing them and then moving to the next group. This work was calming and rote. The click of the wooden bobbins as she lifted them and set them down was only interrupted by her pauses when she inserted the pins to hold the thread in place.
After a while Tigrino settled at her feet as he was apt to do when she worked. He kept her feet warm, and if she worked too long, meowed to be fed and petted.
She didn’t know how long she’d worked before Tigrino rose and sauntered away. She expected him to nudge her for attention, but he didn’t return. Finally, she looked over her shoulder to see where he’d gone and noticed Benedict sitting in the chair across the room. Tigrino was sprawled on his lap—much as she’d been last night.
She turned back to her work, her cheeks burning.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” Benedict said. “I couldn’t sleep and went to the kitchen for tea. I heard the clicking.”
He spoke as though the events of the night before had not occurred. How could he be so formal and polite with her, after the heat that had boiled between them? Had she imagined it? Was it only lust?
Who was she kidding? Of course, it was only lust. And she was in no position to judge. She was not in love with him.
“You are not bothering me,” she said without pausing in her work. Cross-cross-lift-move-cross-pin-cross-cross.
He traversed the room and stood behind her. “I’ve never seen anyone make lace before. How do you know which way to move the wooden pegs?”
Fine. If he wanted to speak of banal things instead of what she was certain they were both really thinking about, she would oblige. “They are bobbins. I was taught as a child. As I grew older I learned more intricate patterns, and then Señora Madras in Lisbon taught me even more complicated methods.” She didn’t look at him, merely continued to move the bobbins. Cross-cross-lift.
“This is more than rote memory, though. This is art.”
That statement startled her. Her fingers fumbled uncharacteristically for a moment. “It is practice and, yes, some skill. I was taught at the knee of my mother. Most lacemakers were taught in this fashion.”
“Watching you work is like watching an artist create.”
She did pause now and looked up at him. His expression was one of complete sincerity. Catarina had been praised for her work before. She’d heard hundreds if not thousands of compliments. But this was the first time she felt tears sting her eyes.
She hadn’t known how much she wanted Benedict to approve of her. It was gratifying when his eyes warmed at seeing her dressed for the theater. It was arousing when his eyes burned as he looked down at her after kissing her half senseless. But it was empowering when he gazed at her with admiration. Because making lace was part of her, an outside expression of her innermost self. And when he saw into that deep part of her and told her it was beautiful—it was art—she felt loved.
It had been so long since she’d felt that way. Her mother had loved her, of course. Her aunt had loved her, and Ines loved her. But that love was the love anyone was obliged
to feel for his or her family. Benedict wasn’t obligated to love her. Perhaps he never would.
But in that moment, she loved him.
And it terrified her because if she loved him, she would be vulnerable. And she couldn’t allow herself to be vulnerable again.
BENEDICT WAS PLEASED that she allowed him to watch her for another hour or so. He hadn’t paid as much attention as he might have. He couldn’t stop thinking about what had almost happened the night before. He had to be the world’s biggest idiot to discuss rules before taking a woman to bed. But he hadn’t expected her to refuse him. He hadn’t expected her to still want the annulment.
But she obviously did.
She didn’t want to be married to him. She didn’t trust him enough to take that step. Unlike most other women of the day her skill with lace gave her more options and freedom. She needed Benedict to protect her from Juan Carlos, but beyond that, she obviously didn’t want Benedict as a husband. She wasn’t averse to taking him as a lover. He knew she hadn’t been feigning her attraction to him. And he wouldn’t pretend her reaction to him didn’t make him feel younger and more desirable than he had in years. But he was a man used to being sought as a husband, and her rejection stung. Strange that for years mothers had been trying to marry their daughters to the war hero—daughters barely out of the schoolroom, girls who looked at him as though he was their toothless grandfather—and now he had a wife who looked at him like a man but wanted no part of marriage.
She had almost finished the lace by that time, and, like the creator, the lace was impossibly intricate and beautiful. By this time the household was awake—at least, his maid and Ward were up and about. Benedict left Catarina to her work and went to his bed chamber to dress.
He’d never looked at lace before, not really. He’d never considered how it was made or who sat for hours twisting thread to make the detailed designs. He had a few items with lace ornamentation, not many as he was a former soldier, not a dandy or a peer. But now he took one of his shirts with lace cuffs from its shelf and studied the lacework. It was adequate, but he could see it was nothing compared to what Catarina created.
