"Light as a feather," he teased, bouncing her in his arms as he carried her up the stairs.
The action made her blood course faster through her veins. Light she might be, but to toss her like that meant he must be strong. The memory of his naked chest slid through her mind. She gripped his arm
and felt his muscles through his sleeve. She wondered how he'd got them since he'd never done
anything resembling exercise in front of her.
"At last," he said, shouldering through his door, "I have my sweet Godiva where I want her."
The light from the hall sconce lit the nearer objects of the room. Her eyes went to his huge Japanese
bed, one corner of which stood out from the shadows. The door swung wider. Her body tightened. The bed loomed as big as a cricket ground, the posts like spears, the quilt a stark white field of snow. She pictured herself lying across it, impaled like a dying soldier, and shuddered involuntarily in his arms.
He laughed and kissed her temple. She thought he would toss her onto the bed and ravish her; she
wanted him to, really, because she didn't wish to think too hard on what lay ahead. Instead, he carried
her to the adjoining bath chamber and set her down. He lit a candle for her, then stroked her fallen hair.
"I know you've a shy streak," he said. "Do whatever you need to be comfortable. I'll wait. All night
if you need me to."
She hoped the light was too dim to show the sudden moisture in her eyes. Anna was right. His kindness was a danger.
"I should hope I wouldn't take all night," she said as flippantly as she could. "Shyness is one thing, but insanity is quite another."
He laughed before backing away. "All night," he repeated.
His growl gave the promise an entirely different meaning.
Left to herself, she removed her clothes and washed up and tried to subdue the trembling of her hands. She wanted this, wanted him. Who better to introduce her to the secrets of the bed chamber? Most of
all, she couldn't go back on her word once she'd implied she would give in. Female or no, that would
have been dishonorable.
There's nothing to fear, she assured herself. After tonight, she couldn't doubt he wanted her. In that, at least, they were equal. She spared a moment to wonder if he'd notice her virginity. Perhaps she should pretend she hadn't actually been despoiled. Of course, if he knew she was a virgin, he might not want to take her. She screwed her eyes shut and shook her head. The last thing she needed was to complicate
her lie. Besides, if her mother's exasperated warnings were reliable, she had nothing to worry about.
She'd climbed too many trees and ridden too many horses astride to be left with anything more than
a virgin's ignorance.
Inexperience,
she corrected with a firm, outward breath. True ignorance hadn't been an issue since she was twelve.
I'll let him take the lead, she thought, and he'll never guess a thing.
* * *
He'd told her he would wait, but it wasn't easy. Hours seemed to pass since he'd set her trembling
on the blue-and-white
Delft
tile. His straining ears caught the rustle of silk and linen, the splash of
water in the sink.
He lit candles—not too many—and turned down the covers on the bed. The sheets were fresh and smelled of Mrs. Choate's lavender potpourri. He doffed his coat and shoes and waistcoat, smoothing
them over the back of an armchair as if they were a woman's skin. He wore one of his poet's shirts tonight, with flat, box-pleated ruffles on the cuffs. He unbuttoned the garment to his breastbone, then stopped.
Still no Mary.
He pressed his hand to his diaphragm and willed himself to calm. He'd done the right thing, letting her ready herself. She wouldn't change her mind. And if she did, tonight wasn't the night he was meant to have her. He could wait. He'd always been able to wait.
Oh, Lord, he prayed, casting his eyes to the ornately plastered ceiling. Please don't make me wait.
The door clicked open and he spun around.
She'd taken off her clothes. Every stitch. Even her hair was pushed behind her shoulders, which she'd squared in the challenging way he'd grown so fond of. Despite his amusement, the sight of her drove the breath straight from his lungs. He sank to the edge of the bed. She seemed magical standing there, an otherworldly sprite with the light flickering over her slim, feminine curves and her high, rose-tipped breasts. The triangle of curls between her legs glinted like antique gold. He wanted to run his fingers through it, wanted to part it and bare her treasure.
He gestured her toward him, coaxingly, reassuringly, and won two forward steps.
"You don't have to stare at me like that," she said. "You've seen it all before."
He smiled and shook his head. "Not like this. Not when I knew I'd be inside you."
She bit her lip and stopped, but she was close enough that he could catch her hands and pull her between his open thighs. She was shivering. He rubbed her from wrist to shoulder, hoping to warm more than her skin.
"Don't be afraid," he said, holding her worried gaze. "Making love to me won't be like it was with—" He stopped because he didn't want her to remember. "This will be pleasurable, Mary. For both of us."
"I hope so," she said, almost too soft to hear. "I'm not very experienced."
The confession touched him. That she could harbor any doubt as to his pleasure was quite ridiculous. At this point, shameful as it was to admit, he'd have enjoyed himself if she did no more than lay there and spread her legs. Laughing silently at the depth of his own lust, he hid his face between her breasts. They were silk against his evening beard, small and firm and kissable.
"Ah, Mary," he groaned, his hands slipping up her back as he reveled in the soft perfection of her skin, "the only experience you need is the kind we'll make together."
She gasped when he took her nipple in his mouth, then again when his hands slid down her back to squeeze her bottom. She was a feast for his touch, her skin like satin, her every muscle firm. He suckled her gently, teasingly, flicking the butter-smooth pebble with his tongue. The way she squirmed and shivered made him feel as if she'd never been touched this way before.
And maybe she hadn't. Maybe he was the first to take the time.
"Nic," she said as he found the hollow behind her knees and made them wobble. "Nic, I want you
naked, too."
He stood so swiftly she almost lost her balance stepping back. "Don't do that," she scolded. "I need room."
He spread his arms, the picture of innocence, and won a grudging smile.
"Arms up," she ordered, and slid her hands beneath his shirt. "Why you didn't wear your American buttons tonight, I can't imagine."
He couldn't help laughing. God knew why, but her grumping made him happy. He bent forward so
she could pull the shirt over his head. The cuffs caught on his wrists and she swore tike a sailor as she struggled to undo them. The brush of her fingers, the way she bit her upper lip in concentration, made
his breath huff like a train. He wanted to kiss her again, to penetrate every orifice she possessed. His chest was damp by the time she reached up to smooth his hair, a procedure that required her to go up
on her toes. Nic was no giant, but she made him feel like one. Her breasts jiggled temptingly against his ribs before she stepped back to consider what she'd revealed.
"You're right," she said, one tapering finger to her jaw. "You do look different now that I know I'm
going to have you."
His laugh burst out but the sound became a choke when she reached for the waistband of his trousers. "Careful, Duchess," he warned. "You wouldn't want to pinch anything valuable in those buttons."
She froze, then clucked when she realized he was teasing. She made short work of the placket, as if
she were familiar— not to mention comfortable—with unfastening gentlemen's clothes. It was yet
another contradiction in the puzzle that was Mary. Younger brothers? he wondered. Or perhaps her
duties in the laundry? He didn't think she'd spent enough time with Monmouth to grow easy with this procedure. Nor could he doubt her claims of inexperience.
At least, he didn't think he could.
With the same unsettling efficiency, she shoved,everything to his ankles and looked up at him from her crouch. Nic tensed. He didn't generally worry about his body; too many women had called it comely for him to waste time on that. Nonetheless, as Mary tilted her head and studied him, he found himself hoping she was pleased. He was certainly hard enough to flatter, whatever she thought of the individual configuration of his sex. He was high now, like a boy with his hand on his first breast. The head pulsed just beneath his navel, its foreskin drawn so eagerly back he felt as if he were stretching in two directions. When Mary's hand slipped up his thigh, his balls actually jumped in excitement. He thought she might touch them, hoped she might, but her fingers stopped at his hip and fanned across the bone. Again he
felt that roughness that had piqued him. Hot tingles of sensation streaked down his legs.
"You should have lit more candles," she said. "I can hardly see you in this light."
His laughter shook his belly and his sex. He pulled her to her feet and kissed her. "I'll light them all,"
he said. "Every one I own."
Then he pulled her tight against him. She cried out as their bodies met, stretching up to hold him, to fit them more intimately together. Blood rushed to his skin in licks of fire. He groaned and lifted her and turned to lay her on the bed. She clutched him so closely he had to lower them both to the mattress together. He pressed her down beneath him, knowing he might be heavy but unable to resist. Her smallness drove him wild, but her strength made him fearless. He felt as if he could crush her, savage
her, and she would only moan for more. She moaned now as he ran his hand down her curves, molding her, squeezing her, thrilling to the equal force with which she squeezed him back.
"Yes," he breathed as she gripped his buttocks. "Hold me as closely as you want."
Her mouth opened on his neck, hot, panting, and he knew she needed more.
He slipped his hand between them to find her wiry golden curls. Once past them, her sex was as soft
as he'd dreamed, as warm and wet.
"Oh," she gasped as he slid his finger up the melting satin crease.
He swallowed the piping syllable in a kiss, easing his finger inside her, easing his thumb to the center
of her joy. Her limbs went lax, then taut, and then she poured a moan of hunger down his throat. Her sheath was a clinging cushion against his finger, tight but very welcoming. The thought of how. she'd clasp his shaft made him coil like piano wire on a peg. Wait, damn you, he ordered his pounding prick. Let her come before you test how warm her welcome is.
He pulled back from the kiss. Her eyes opened wide, clearly wondering why he'd stopped. "I want to watch," he said. "I want to see you take your pleasure."
Her back arched—a trembling, involuntary stretch—and he knew his request had deepened her excitement. Her eyes were dark, her hair a glorious tangle on the sheets.
"You always ... want to watch," she said, so aroused she couldn't get the words out on one breath.
"Everything," he agreed, and slipped a second finger inside her. She was so narrow it almost wouldn't
fit. With another sighing squirm, she pushed against him, driving him in to the webbing of his hand.
She laughed at his sharp inhalation, but her laugh was no steadier than her limbs.
'Touch me," he said, his voice like a match rasping sun-warmed brick. "Put your hand on my cock."