Edith Layton (12 page)

He tilted his head back and looked down at her. “Bridget, if you hate this…”

“Oh, but I don’t,” she said. “I’m just a little…”

“I know,” he said with a wolfish smile. “We can do something about that. We will.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say,” she protested, and then squeaked in surprise as he lifted her in his arms as easily as if she were a child. No one had carried her since she’d been one. She felt very vulnerable as he bore her out of the room and down the hallway. It was wonderful.

“You were going to say you’re afraid or nervous, but you didn’t have to; your heartbeat said it for you,” he breathed. “Mine’s beating just as fast, and I know what’s to come.” He put her hand on his naked chest. She felt his heart pounding beneath the lightly furred skin. “Here, feel that?” he asked, but now she was feeling the steely muscle moving beneath that heated skin, and almost forgot what he’d asked.

“Just so,” he said. “We’ll be very good with each other, even though you say it’s your first time.”

“It
is
!” she cried indignantly, snatching her hand back, the passion of her anger blotting out all the other passion she’d just felt. “You don’t believe me?” It was as well that he’d already put her down on his bed. Her whole body stiffened at his words.

He paused, one knee on the feather mattress. “I wasn’t thinking,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, I forgot. Good God, Bridget, I told you, I can’t think with you so near. Just look at you!”

She did—and felt her face grow hot. But not so warm as the look in his eyes as he stared at her. “Must we begin all over again?” he groaned. “Must I tell you all
the nonsense, pretend to be doing something else, pretend to be thinking something else? I want you now, Bridget. What is it that you want of me now?”

She gazed at him. His dressing gown had half opened, and she could finally see the strange and exciting furze of dark hair on his chest and how rapidly that wide chest rose and fell. She looked farther down, blinked at what she saw, and felt the blood rushing to her cheeks. She didn’t know if it was from alarm or excitement. She’d never seen anything like it, and didn’t know where to look: back at the astonishing evidence of his desire, or away. She quickly looked up to see the muscles working in his clenched jaw, and his avid eyes.

She waited for maidenly fear to make her tremble. It didn’t. There was none. She wanted him as dearly as he wanted her. Maybe not for the same reasons, because she wasn’t sure what was ahead. But she wanted him happy, she wanted his love and approval, and she
so
wanted to know what he wanted to do with her.

So she told him exactly that.

His head went up and his nostrils flared. Her hand went to her mouth. She couldn’t believe she’d actually said that. He took that hand and brought it to his own lips. “Done, and gladly,” he said on a chuckle. “You shall have all of that, and more.” He shrugged off his robe, moved over the bed, gathered her close, and kissed her. He opened his mouth, deepening the kiss, straining against her as he stroked and calmed and wildly excited her.

It was more thrilling than she’d imagined. His pleasure—and hers. In the twilight she could see his face clearly. She saw his lashes outlined against his high cheekbones as his lips left her mouth to go to her
breast. She could see his wide shoulders moving over her, his face concentrated, hard-edged with passion. His mouth on her breasts, first one and then the other, brought her to a kind of sweet fever, the pangs of sharp-edged pleasure so delicious she wished he’d never stop. His hands were deft, his mouth gentle yet demanding, his skin hot and darkly fragrant. He was so sure, so accomplished, so knowing.

He stopped kissing her and held himself still. He rose above her, balancing himself on his elbows, their bodies barely touching. Then he abruptly closed his eyes and hung his head, taking in a deep shuddering breath and letting it out slowly. And then he did nothing else for a long moment.

“Is everything all right?” she finally asked, her voice stunned with pleasure—and the sudden cessation of it.

“Bridget,” he said breathlessly, going to one elbow beside her, his body tense, his voice strained, “do you think…that is to say…I wonder…do you think you might care to participate, my dear?”

H
e could have bitten his tongue, she looked so stricken.

He’d had to say it, but he wasn’t sure it had been the right thing to say to a virgin. He didn’t know much about them; he’d been more interested in changing her state than researching it. He regretted that now.

He put his damp forehead on the pillow next to hers and drew a shuddering breath. It hadn’t been easy to stop. He was almost dying of frustration. But it would have been unthinkable for him to go on, because this was very important to him and he wasn’t a man to ignore such an important thing as pleasure.

He cracked open an eye and looked at her. “Maybe I said it wrong, Bridget. Do you really like what I’m doing?” he asked cautiously.

“Oh. But yes, of course,” she said, shifting nervously beneath his outstretched body, making him wish he could just be quiet and get on with it, as his body was yearning to do.

But he knew what he wanted. More than that, he knew what he needed and what was required if there was to be any future in this for them. “Well, then,” he said carefully, “the thing of it is, it’s something for two people to do, not just for one to do to the other.

“Bridget,” he said, raising his head and gazing down into her confused eyes, “you kiss deliciously. You allow me everything. But you haven’t touched me. Is there a reason?” He held himself up above her on his arms now, and, muscular as they were, they trembled as he waited for her answer.

“Oh,” she said, and thought about it. “But I put my arms around you.”

“I know, and thank you,” he said with hard-won gravity. “But that isn’t what I meant.”

She raised a serious face to his. They were almost nose to nose, and it was a ridiculous time to hold a conversation, but he had to know.

“Oh,” she said in a little voice. “Why I don’t do to you what you do to me—is that it? Am I supposed to?”

“Not exactly,” he said, damning himself for starting a debate when his sex was clamoring for satiation and his body was thrumming with the discomfort of interrupting a promised treat. “I simply meant, why didn’t you touch me at all?”

Her brows went down as she frowned in thought. “Well, you see…I didn’t dare, I suppose. I didn’t know you wanted me to, and well, Ewen, you seem so—so elegant, so separate, so aloof. So dignified. Yes, that’s it.
The mighty Viscount Sinclair. How can I say it? I didn’t wish to presume, I guess.”

“Oh, please presume,” he said eagerly.

She put a tentative hand on his chest and felt him suck in his breath. She almost pulled her hand away. Instead, curious, her eyes downcast, she ventured to stroke a tentative finger over the hair growing there.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Oh, yes,” he whispered when she ran her hand cautiously down his chest to his flat stomach. She marveled at the hard muscles there and didn’t know—at first—what it was she then felt below his navel, that warm, smooth, striving length springing up toward her hand.

She snatched her hand away, shocked at herself. There was only so much she could do. This intimacy was thrilling, but leagues beyond what she’d imagined. She didn’t know how she’d gotten even this far, lying naked in a man’s arms and delighting in it. He’d swept her away. Now she paused and worried. If she thought about what was happening, she might not be able to go on. She’d been taught her husband could do anything—but as for what she could do, she really had very little idea. Her upbringing stood between herself and his passion. She’d been taught to be a good and moral girl.

He saw her difficulty. Lord knew, he thought, if she opened her eyes she could see his.

“Bridget,” he coaxed, his lips on hers, “why should your loving me distress you when my loving you does not?”

That made sense to her. And it was what he wanted, wasn’t it? He was her husband, after all. Well, then. She could allow herself to be free. Society would expect it, after all. And she so wanted to do it. She dared to discover
him then, becoming increasingly bold in fits and starts. Touching, retreating in surprise—and then touching again as his breathing grew ragged.

Her shy, inexpert lovemaking was a delicious novelty to him. It took all his resolve to withhold himself, but that soon became a torturous pleasure for him, too.

She caressed his back, even ran her hands over his tight, hard rear. I
magine that
! she thought in awe. H
e’s always so cool and amused, but not when
I
touch him
. It was a revelation to her, and a joy.

She heard him groan in his throat when she finally dared to touch him
there
. At his whispered urging, she dared hold him in her hand, her confidence growing even as he did. W
hat an astonishing part of a man that is
! she thought fleetingly.
So large and yet always so hidden
. B
ut not now
. She wondered if even the bedsheet could hide it now. So smooth and strong, and yet so sensitive to her lightest, hesitant touch. As was he.

He wasn’t reserved now. His body was hot, his skin lightly sheened with perspiration. His focus, his concentration, all his intellect and passion were centered on her. She’d never felt so important.

He was on fire, and there was a limit even to his endurance. He moved over her again, nudging her legs further apart. She grew still. He remembered.

“Don’t worry,” he managed to say, “I won’t hurt you. No, there’s a lie. I’m told it may, the first time. I may hurt you then, but I’ll never harm you, that I promise.” Then he could no longer speak. He moved to her—and stopped, aghast.

What was he thinking of? She’d bewitched him, making him forget years of experience. She was obviously not ready. She was happy experimenting with him, but
not ablaze with passion. He’d have her no other way. He took another breath, winning control.

“My turn,” he whispered, putting his lips to her neck, his hands on her breasts.

“I thought it was a thing for two people to do,” she said nervously.

“So it is, so it is,” he said as he bent to her, shaky laughter in his voice. “You don’t have to stop, you know.”

But she did, eventually, because he began to stroke her again, touch her again, kiss her again, in new places, his breathing growing tumultuous as she closed her eyes and turned her head so she wouldn’t see herself enjoying such shocking, intimate, delicious things.

Now he truly burned, now he couldn’t wait or stop again, not even if she asked. But she didn’t; she moved for him, and everything he knew told him she was ready for him. Her body warm, silken, and damp; she lay in a daze of pleasure.

When he came to her at last, she was beyond ready for him. There was a sudden burning moment for her, and it wasn’t desire. But the pain was quickly over and soon forgotten in her delight at their closeness and his obvious enjoyment. It was more than that now. Her easy, laughing lover was suddenly intent, serious, driven. But always gentle, except when he no longer had the choice. When his body strained, the muscles in his back and shoulders bunched, and he drove into her, she accepted him gladly. She moved with him, even if she wasn’t as moved as he was. But that was only because she was too astonished by what he was doing. She held on to him as he came to her, and held him as he convulsed in his final ecstasy.

After he finally subsided, he turned on his side with her still in his arms, and lay down with her again.

She touched his damp hair. “H
usband
,” she whispered proudly.

He swam up from the haze of repletion he’d been drowsing in. Women had told him many things in the throes of their lovemaking, and afterward. He’d heard profanity in plenty, demands at times, too, and often words of pleasure or praise. But never that. It made him feel strange—rueful and yet triumphant. He sought the right, honest, best thing to say to her now.

“Bridget,” he said, and kissed away any reply she might make.

He didn’t sleep right away, though he soon heard her soft, regular breathing and knew she’d drifted off. Though usually he preferred to turn on his side and sleep alone, he still held her; she’d asked him to. “I like that
so
much,” she’d confessed sleepily, rubbing her cheek against his chest. “It’s so good to be held, you know.”

That had surprised him. But she’d surprised him in many ways: her modesty, the way she’d been able to blush even afterward, when he brought her a basin and helped clear all traces of their lovemaking and the unavoidable stain of her previous innocence. That had been new for him also. Some men found a quick release best, but he knew women too well. It was her first time, though, and so against all his knowledge of women he’d hurried to spare her discomfort. It still had been exquisite. Though she’d been shy and hesitant with him at first, it turned out nothing he did distressed her. He could hardly wait to do more and teach her how to get more from what he did.

Surprises and pleasures and laughter in the bargain: She was exactly what he’d been looking for, he thought contentedly as he relaxed and began to join her in sleep. He’d been very lucky. He could only hope for her sake that she was, too.

As her eyes fluttered open, Ewen grinned down at her and bent to nip her exposed shoulder. Then he dropped a light kiss on her lips.

“Good morning,” he said, his eyes gentle and smiling. “I’d have preferred another way of rousing you, but we’re traveling today, remember? No, no, don’t jump up like that; you’ve an hour to get ready. I took the liberty of having my valet pack for you. All you need do is rise and shine…and stop looking at me like that or we’ll never get there.”

As he straightened she saw that he stood at the side of the bed, washed and dressed and scented with shaving soap, immaculate as always. It was almost as if she’d dreamed the impassioned naked man in her arms. Almost—until she saw what was kindling again in his eyes.

“I’ll be ready in no time,” she promised. Clutching the bedsheet to her breast, she swung her feet over the high bed and stepped down. She winced.

“Another reason not to rouse you that way,” he said ruefully. “I’m sorry about that. The soreness will disappear, and you’ll become accustomed.”

“So I’ve heard,” she said, averting her eyes, her face growing warm. “It’s like riding a horse, they say. The muscles soon adapt.”

He laughed. “What a compliment! I hope you don’t think it’s like traveling on old Dobbin. I’ll have to do
something about that if you do. But not for a while. For now, please just get ready.” He went to the door.

But she was still frowning. “Ewen?” she said in a little voice as she stood and studied her toes. “Last night, was it—was I—what you wanted?”

He turned back, strode across the room, and took her in his arms. “M
ore
than what I wanted. More than I deserve. You were a joy, a delight, and I’m a fool for not telling you so. I don’t usually make that mistake. You see? There’s proof. You were so dazzling, you made a rake forget his wiles. But what I ought to do,” he muttered angrily, almost to himself, “is to stop telling you what I used to do! What a clunch I am. Forgive me. It was wonderful, Bridget, don’t doubt it. Now, although I’d love to stay and reassure you, there are things I must do. Breakfast awaits, so please hurry.”

“I will!” she promised, and danced her way to her bath.

Her mood was even rosier when she came back to see what she was to wear. Ewen’s valet had good taste. Madame Blau had delivered some of her new wardrobe, and he’d packed it all, except for a lovely new dark rose carriage dress. Bridget slipped it on, did her hair up, snatched up a matching shawl, and hurried down the stairs.

There was no one in the morning room this time, so she ate her breakfast in solitary splendor. She was half done when the butler appeared.

“Miss—pardon, my lady,” he corrected himself, although he wore the faintest frown and said the words as though they were in some alien language. “There are persons to see you. I hesitate to send them away since they did gain admittance yesterday. Shall I show them in?”

“Of course,” she said, because she was curious.

“Or would you prefer to see them in the study?”

She wasn’t even sure where the study was. But she was supposedly mistress here now, and it was time to start acting like it. “Send them in, please,” she said as loftily as she could, with less confidence at the end because she realized she didn’t know the butler’s name.

Betsy, the little flower seller, and her older sister, Gilly, were ushered in. “Ma’am,” Betsy said, curtsying to her, but eyeing the breakfast laid out on the sideboard. She again wore her new dress. Her older sister still wore boys’ clothing.

“Mornin’, my lady,” the older girl said. “We come because there’s a thing I’d ask of you. All I wish is you hear me out.”

“Well, you may ask,” Bridget said, “but I’m not sure I can grant anything. Would you like to wait until the Viscount…my
husband
,” she said, tasting the new word with pleasure, “comes back?”

“Nah,” Gilly said. “No reason to, ’specially since we waited till he left to come in. Truth is, I don’t much like to deal with gents, and it’s a thing I think only a lady would understand.”

Every instinct told Bridget to ask the girls to have some breakfast. They were both painfully thin, and Betsy’s eyes were huge as she stared at the sideboard. But Bridget was a viscountess now. A
nd you’re still a person first
, she reminded herself. S
hame on you, a lady half a day, and already too like your
C
ousin
C
ecily
. Bridget’s conscience pricked her so sharply, she sat up as though she’d sat on a tack. “Fine,” she said. “Would you care for some breakfast?”

Betsy ran toward the sideboard, but her sister put a
hand on her shoulder and held her back. “The lady was just being a lady, luv. You ain’t supposed to sit and eat with her. If you’re good, I’ll get you some to carry away. Now sit in the corner there, and be quiet! I ain’t going to sit with you neither, my lady. Wouldn’t be fitting, but thanks for asking,” she told Bridget. When Betsy had gone across the room to a chair by the window, she went on.