Authors: Heather Cullman
It was, and as she’d imagined that day in the garden, the sprinkling of dark hair there was crisp rather than soft. Delighting in the way that crispness tickled her hands, she thoroughly explored the sculpted contours of his chest, then smoothed down his ribs, marveling at the way they tapered into his lean waist.
As she moved inward to trace the ridges of his flat belly, she breathlessly whispered, “Oh, Nicholas. You are so magnificent that I can scarcely believe you are made of flesh and blood.”
He moaned and pulled her into his embrace. “I am indeed flesh and blood, my love … flesh that trembles beneath your touch, and blood that sings with desire to possess you.”
“Then, possess me,” she murmured, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him.
His only reply was a feverish groan as he scooped her up in his arms. Pausing a beat to glance about, he finally set her atop the worktable, her backside pillowed by his dressing gown.
For a long moment thereafter he simply looked at her, his gaze hot and hungry. Then a hoarse cry tore from his throat, and he cupped her breasts in his hands. His breath harsh and rasping, he circled her nipples with his thumbs, producing the most exquisite sensations. She moaned her bliss and arched up, thrusting the hardened peaks beneath his fingers.
For several rapturous moments he teased them, flicking and tweaking them in turn, then he leaned down and took them in his mouth. Time froze in a burst of ecstasy as he suckled them, sometimes licking, other times nipping and kissing. No matter what he did, it sent surge after electrifying surge of sensation vibrating through her.
Where those vibrations terminated was deep and low, bedeviling her unmentionable place in a way that made her squirm and groan. Mindless of everything but her need, she grasped his hand and wantonly pressed it between her legs.
Nicholas lifted his head from her breasts to stare at where she held his hand, then he growled and stripped her lower body bare. After laying her back on the table, he parted her swollen flesh, lightly tracing its length as he did so.
She gasped and strained her thighs apart. When he separated her farther to expose and caress her hardened core, she thrashed her hips, screaming her pleasure. For a long while he stimulated her thus, stroking, teasing, and tickling her, then he knelt down and kissed her intimately.
Over and over again he took her to the edge, only to pull back at the last moment. She arched against his mouth, sobbing and begging for release. When she lay wet and trembling before him, he stood up and stripped off his trousers.
“Oh, my! Just look at you,” she whispered, rising to her elbows to stare at his sex. Slanting him a shy glance, she stammered, “May I t-touch you?”
At his nod she grasped him. He emitted a strangled sob and jumped. Certain that she had again done something in her ignorance to hurt him, she released him, murmuring, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” He stammered between gritted teeth. “For hurting you. I didn’t mean to do so. I — I just wanted to feel you.”
There was a pause, then he softly commanded, “Look at me, Sophie.” When she did, she saw that he smiled. “You didn’t hurt me. I like you touching me.”
“But you jumped,” she protested, staring at his handsome face in bewilderment.
“You jumped when I touched you intimately, too. Don’t you remember?”
She nodded.
“And did you do so because I hurt you?”
She shook her head. “No. No! What you did felt wonderful.”
“Well, that is exactly how it is with me. I move from pleasure, not from pain. Do you see?”
She did see, and smiled. Thus assured, she again took him in her hand.
Nicholas, however, instantly regretted his encouragement. The feel of her fingers, gentle yet eager, as they touched and explored his inflamed length proved far more stimulating than he’d expected. So stimulating, that within moments he was forced to pull from her hands, certain that he’d lose himself if she continued.
“Nicholas?” she whispered, her eyes again wide and worried.
He shook his head at her silent query. “No, my love. You did nothing wrong. What you did was very right, and I promise that next time I shall let you explore me to your heart’s content. Right now, however, it is time for us to release each other.” After thoroughly kissing her, he again teased her woman’s flesh.
When he was certain she was ready to receive him, he moved between her thighs and rubbed his tip over her. She cried out and opened yet wider. Lightly stroking her feminine bud to ease the pain of penetration, he slowly entered her.
Her head shot up at the feel of him, and she exclaimed, “Nicholas! Whatever are you doing?” all while staring at their joining flesh.
“Why, I’m entering you, of course,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss her lips.
Her eyes widened. “You’re what!”
“Entering you,” he repeated. “Surely you know that that is how things are done between a man and a woman?”
She shook her head, her face troubled as she continued to stare at his sex. “But — but — it won’t fit.”
“Of course it will. Women have babies every day, and a baby is much larger than I shall ever be.”
“Yes, well, I hear that it hurts dreadfully to have even the tiniest of babies,” she retorted, squirming to remove him.
He smiled gently and drew her up into his embrace. “Unfortunately, I can’t promise that this won’t hurt the first time. It shall. But the pain will soon pass, and you shall enjoy the experience immensely. I promise.”
She frowned, clearly not at all reassured.
He kissed the tip of her nose. “Trust me?”
She gazed at him for a beat, then bit her lip and nodded.
“Good, then try to relax. It will be much easier if you are relaxed.” Though she still looked frightened, she leaned back again, calming only when he had again prepared her.
“Now, just relax, love. And remember: You have only to tell me to stop and withdraw, and I shall do so immediately.” With that, he eased into her. Though she gasped at the feel of him, she voiced no protest. He entered a fraction more, pausing to stimulate her when she tensed.
Inch by slow inch he moved deeper until he felt the barrier of her maidenhood, then he stopped and gathered her into his arms. Hugging her close, he thrust sharply and broke through. She sobbed and buried her face against his chest.
Expecting her to demand his withdrawal, Nicholas sat perfectly still, stroking her hair. To his surprise, she instead moved her hips, as if adjusting to his size. After a few moments of such squirming, she nodded.
“Are you certain, love?” he murmured, fearful of causing her more pain.
She looked up and smiled. “Yes. It doesn’t hurt so much now.”
“Do you promise to tell me if the pain worsens?” he said, searching her face for signs of discomfort. There was none.
“I promise.” With that vow, she again moved her hips, making him groan at the resulting friction. “Now, please do continue. I find that I like the feel of you inside me.”
In one smooth motion he filled her completely. She wrapped her legs about his hips, urging him on. Ardently he complied, thrusting time and again. Soon she found his rhythm and moved with him.
As one now they continued on, thrusting and arching in perfect harmony, their pleasure swelling with every blissful stroke. And when they finally reached their climax, they did so together, shuddering in unison as they found heaven in each other’s arms.
“Nicholas! Oh, Nicholas,” she gasped as they gently floated back to earth. “Will it always be like this?”
He laid his scarred cheek against her forehead, sighing his contentment. “For all eternity, my love.”
Sophie should have been exhausted when she entered the kitchen the next morning, beyond exhaustion really, for she and Nicholas had remained together, laughing and talking and making love until just before dawn. Yet she wasn’t tired, not in the least. Indeed she’d never felt so wonderful in her entire life, or so very alive, for Nicholas loved her.
Oh, he hadn’t uttered the exact words, but she knew it was so. It had to be. How could he have shared what he’d shared with her last night if he didn’t love her? Besides, he’d promised her an eternity of bliss, and a man didn’t pledge his eternity to a woman he didn’t love. Not a man as good and honorable as Nicholas.
Smiling with all the joy she felt inside, Sophie gaily greeted the staff as she waltzed to the sideboard to collect her ladyship’s breakfast tray. She had just picked it up when she heard Cook holler to Meg, “No need to fix Lord Lyndhurst a tray this morning.”
Sophie grinned to herself. No doubt he was exhausted and still slept.
“He left for London earlier,” Cook continued.
“London?” Sophie exclaimed, her heart freezing in her chest.
Cook nodded without looking up from the carrot she chopped. “It was the queerest thing. His lordship stormed downstairs just after dawn, announcing that he was off to London and demanding that his horse be saddled. Queerer yet, he rode off without a single word to anyone as to when, or even if, he intends to return.” She shook her head. “It was like he was running away from something.”
Chapter 21
“Your shoulders are sagging again,” the marchioness complained, frowning at Sophie. “You are supposed to be Diana, goddess of the moon, remember? And I can assure you that moon goddesses do not slouch. So shoulders up. Up! Up!” She jerked her pencil in an upward motion to illustrate her point.
Sophie murmured an apology and did as instructed. Her ladyship, she’d discovered, had an inordinate fondness for sketching, and ever since her miraculous recovery two weeks earlier she’d insisted that Sophie pose for her every day. Today they worked in the garden before a temple folly with waterfall stairs.
“Let me see, now. What was I saying?” her ladyship muttered, critically eyeing the sketchbook before her. “Oh, yes. I remember.” She nodded and added a slashing stroke to the drawing. “I was telling you about the horse race Colin won when he was nine.”
Sophie smiled wanly. The woman also had a predilection for talking about Nicholas. Indeed, she’d spoken of little else since he’d left, chatting about everything from his first steps to his latest gardening experiments. It was apparent that she loved and missed him a great deal.
As did Sophie herself.
“Turn your head a little to the left. I want to get your lovely profile.”
Sophie complied.
“Just a bit more.” The marchioness waved her pencil again. “Yes. There. Perfect. Now, hold that pose.” Nodding her satisfaction, she resumed her sketching and her motherly prattle.
Sophie resumed brooding over Nicholas. For almost two weeks now she’d been trying to think of a reason for him leaving as he had. And though she’d thought of dozens of them, only one truly fit his actions, the one she was loath to believe: He regretted their rendezvous in the forcing house and had rushed off to escape her, and the demands he feared she would make. Trouble was, while the explanation fit his actions, it didn’t fit the man.
Or at least not the man she thought him to be. A flash of doubt, jagged and painful, ripped through her. Could it be that she was wrong about him? That he wasn’t as good and honorable as she believed?
As it always did when she thought that traitorous thought, her mind screamed a resounding no. She couldn’t be wrong, she simply couldn’t be! Nicholas was exactly as he appeared: kind, good, wise, honorable, gallant, and everything else fine a man could be. Just because he’d gone away as he had, abruptly and mysteriously, gave her no reason to doubt him. Why, there must be a hundred excellent reasons for him doing so that she just hadn’t thought of yet.
Maybe even two hundred.
“Sophie. Your shoulders, dear. Your shoulders.”
Sophie stiffened both her shoulders and her faith. Nicholas had asked her to trust him and — blast everything! She would. She would continue to do so until he did something to prove himself unworthy of it.
She smiled faintly at that last. Deep in her heart she knew that she would never find him unworthy of her trust, or anything else. Not even if they remained together the eternity he had promised her.
“Oh, botheration!” her ladyship exclaimed.
Sophie hastily squared her shoulders a fraction more and murmured, “I am sorry, my lady. I shall try not to slouch again.”
“You are perfect as you are. It’s my confounded pencil.” The marchioness held up the culprit to reveal its broken lead. “It is my last sharp one.”
Sophie was just about to offer to sharpen it when she spied a man over her mistress’s shoulder, hurrying toward them. It didn’t take a second glance for her to recognize his lustrous mahogany curls and elegant form.
Lord Quentin.
A black chill swept through her. He would recognize her for certain and expose her to his parents.
Strangely enough, that prospect more saddened than frightened her. She had grown exceedingly fond of the jolly marquess and his lovely marchioness, and it would break her heart to lose their goodwill. But lose it she would when Quentin revealed her identity, for how could they not despise her for what she had done to Nicholas? As to what they would do, well, that was less clear.