Authors: Alyssa Everett
“Can you feel it?” she asked breathlessly, still with his hand pressed to her heart. “Goodness, I can’t remember the last time it was beating so hard!”
She wasn’t wearing stays. Her flesh felt soft, as soft as Eve’s had looked in the picture he’d seen, only his aunt was warm and real.
He stammered, “I was only—only looking for a deck of cards—”
“And I was looking for a book. I feel so alone, sometimes, lying awake at night. This house can seem so big and empty.” She gazed back at him, still gripping his hand, her pupils huge in the flickering candlelight. “My, but you’re tall, David. You’re growing up so fast.”
Paralyzed by a combination of awkwardness and uncertainty, he remained frozen.
Then a small noise broke the stillness, a creak from the corridor as the house settled, and he half turned to look behind him. His palm had been resting high on the curve of Celeste’s breast, but in turning, somehow he must have tugged it lower. When he turned back, Celeste had let go of his hand, and he—he was cupping her breast. Through the thin cotton of her nightgown, the peak of her nipple hardened under his fingers.
“Ah,” Celeste said, but he had already yanked his hand away, jolted, consumed by a firestorm of emotions—confusion, embarrassment, guilt and, most of all, feverish, driving excitement.
For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. It was as if all the air in his lungs had been sucked right out of him. She stared back at him with wide, dilated eyes.
He managed to mumble an apology before turning and racing back to his room, his heart hammering so hard he could almost hear his pulse thundering in his ears. Once in his room, he climbed trembling into bed, where he lay awake for hours, reliving each dismaying, thrilling second a thousand times in his head.
Her breast. He’d touched her
breast
. He tossed and turned until the first light of dawn, burning with thoughts and emotions he didn’t recognize.
Days went by, and Celeste made no mention of the incident. David recognized that cupping her breast, even by accident, had been wrong—if not a moral failing, then certainly a breach of polite behavior. He ought to apologize, but he couldn’t think how to bring it up without adding one impropriety to another. And his aunt, whether to spare his blushes or her own, went on behaving as if nothing had happened.
He grew increasingly uncertain just how high touching her ranked in the hierarchy of his misdeeds. He couldn’t put it out of his head, the excitement of his hand on her breast inextricably tangled up with the pulse-pounding shock of stumbling on her in the dark and with guilty visions of the naked Eve.
Now, lying beside Rosalie and replaying each moment in his head, he pictured that time anew, remembering details that had eluded him before. That day in the garden, for instance—Celeste had handed him the book of Milton after less than a minute of reading. Could she have known he’d find the picture of Adam and Eve on the next page? And that night in the library doorway—had he inadvertently moved his hand lower, as he’d always supposed, or might she have repositioned it herself? When she’d failed to mention it to him afterward, he’d assumed she was simply too modest, too embarrassed. What if she’d instead been a willing conspirator?
Rosalie’s questions echoed in his head.
When you began to cross the bounds of decency, did she resist in any way? Did she avoid you, or rebuke you? Did she go to her husband? Did she ever insist on the limits you fully expected her to set?
Why had Celeste never stopped him? He frowned into the darkness, remembering how he’d found more and more excuses to touch her in the weeks following that first guilty encounter—innocently at first, then in a deliberately equivocal manner, and then with increasing boldness. Eventually, he’d created pretexts to make her touch him, too. Yet she’d never reprimanded him, never pushed him away, never denied him. He’d assumed she loved and trusted him too much to know what he was about, at least until matters were already spinning out of control. After all, he was young and inexperienced, and she had no reason to suspect—
In a flash of insight, David realized Celeste had been the same age during that first guilty summer as he was now. Thirty-one. At thirty-one, he considered himself experienced past redemption. Not so when he’d been a boy of twelve—then, the overtures he’d made had been new to him, and more than a little unnerving. With the tunnel vision of youth, he’d ascribed much of his own naiveté and uncertainty to his aunt. But Celeste was nearly twenty years older than he was. Looking back on those days through the eyes of maturity, he wondered how any adult of thirty-one years could possibly have mistaken his intentions.
And what Rosalie had said about her own young cousin was true. As sweet and eager to please as Rosalie could be, David couldn’t imagine her permitting the boy to make a sexual advance. Considering their relationship from the perspective of an outsider, David saw with perfect clarity that allowing such attentions wouldn’t be tenderness or compassion at all, but a serious dereliction of her responsibilities as a mentor and guardian.
Ah
, Celeste had said that first time he’d touched her breast. He’d interpreted it then as a gasp of surprise, an inarticulate protest. He’d taken it as proof he’d shocked her profoundly. But David had heard that same sound on many occasions over the years.
Ah
—not a protest, not a feminine gasp of shock, but the blissful sigh of a woman whose long-denied desires were finally being realized.
Perhaps
you
weren’t
doing
monstrous
things
to
her
, Rosalie had said.
Perhaps
she
was
doing
monstrous
things
to
you
.
David rolled onto his side, hardly daring to believe anyone as good and honest as Rosalie could be right about something so—so morally repugnant. For most of his life, he’d been convinced he was sick, even depraved, and that Celeste had been his helpless victim. He’d worried the same madness that had overtaken his father might likewise be festering in him. But everything Rosalie had said earlier made more and more sense, while everything Celeste had done years ago made less and less.
Ah
...
And Celeste had written to congratulate him on his marriage, while he wanted only to forget the past, to blot out every detail of those years and pretend they’d never happened. Was Celeste more comfortable contacting him because her guilt was only a pale reflection of his own—or was it because he’d always been her puppet, her cat’s paw, and she couldn’t resist testing her power over him again?
Beside him, Rosalie lay sleeping the peaceful sleep of the virtuous, her lashes dark against her cheek, her ripe lips slightly parted. She looked beautiful in the moonlight, her face soft with the innocence he’d lost long ago.
Was it possible she’d been able to see past his guilt, even when he couldn’t? Was it possible he wasn’t the villain he’d believed? He was afraid to hope, yet Rosalie had a way of viewing the world around her that made him want to believe...
Exhausted, he slipped one arm around his sleeping wife, closed his eyes and sank steadily toward a deep, dreamless slumber.
Chapter Twenty-One
Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.
—
William Shakespeare
In his thirty-one years on earth, most of them regrettably unchaste, David had acquired a wide-ranging repertoire of sexual experience. From an early age he’d come to equate physical gratification with acceptance and approval, and he’d turned to countless women in futile attempts to escape his own unhappiness. In the process, he’d tried every position he knew, as well as several he’d discovered quite by accident. He’d been with older women, younger women, and two women at once. But the one thing he’d never done, in all his years of liberty and license, was to pass an entire night sleeping beside a lover.
With Celeste, the need for secrecy had rendered spending the night together an impossibility. Later, he’d never cared to linger with the lightskirts he’d engaged, and, always mindful that time was money, none of them had encouraged him to stay. Even his most alluring mistresses had lost their appeal once he’d taken the edge off his desire, and his own bed at Deal House had always seemed more inviting than tangled sheets and the reek of strong perfume. Often, he’d been more than half drunk anyway, and loath to face both regret and a hangover before an audience the next morning. A mumbled word of thanks, perhaps a token of his appreciation tossed on a bedside table, and he’d always headed out into the night, grateful to be alone again with his thoughts.
Waking up in bed with Rosalie was different. The sheets were smooth and clean, the feather pillow so soft under his head he felt almost as if he were floating. Sunlight filtered through a part in the silken draperies, brightening her room with the golden glow of early morning. The sensation he liked best, though, was the feel of Rosalie’s body nestled against his. Her hair tickled his chin, and her backside was tucked snugly against his lap.
It wasn’t unusual for him to wake up aroused, but to wake up aroused with a soft, breathtakingly lovely young woman in his arms was a novel experience. He lifted his head just enough to check the clock on the mantel.
Rosalie reacted to the movement by stirring in her sleep, rolling tighter against him. The desire warming his sleepy thoughts flared to a roaring blaze.
“Rosalie,” he whispered, and when she sighed, he dipped his head and kissed the spot where her pulse beat just below her ear. Her eyes fluttered open.
She was awake. Awake and spooned against him, half-naked in bed. He propped himself up on one elbow, waiting for that sense of dismay to hit him—that moral shock that some cruel trick of Fate had saved for his bride.
It never came. Instead, she turned her head, her brown eyes accepting and just the slightest bit questioning. She smiled, clearly wondering what he was going to do next.
He did what came naturally. He moved above her, easing her onto her back and covering her body with his, his weight on his forearms. With one hand, he brushed her dark hair away from her forehead. Rosalie gazed up at him—trusting, clear-eyed and so exquisite it brought a lump to his throat.
He smiled crookedly. “Good morning.”
A soft blush colored her cheeks. “Good morning.”
He lowered his head and kissed her—slowly, lingeringly. Her lips were full and soft, and when she opened her mouth, their tongues slid together. Her arms twined around his neck. His heartbeat quickened, but this time it wasn’t from the suffocating certainty he could never deserve her.
“Oh, David...” she said when the need to draw more air forced him to break off their kiss.
She ran her hands over his back, already breathing faster, her eyes already heavy-lidded. Apparently women, too, could wake up half-aroused. Even so, he had no intention of rushing matters. This was her first time,
their
first time. There were too many things he wanted to learn about her first.
He nuzzled her neck and went back to kissing her, fondling her breast, caressing it gently through the white lawn of her nightgown. She gasped into his mouth as he traced light circles around her nipple and the little peak hardened beneath this thumb. Again he expected a sense of unworthiness to hit him, a sense that he didn’t deserve this and she’d be safer if he kept his distance, but the bright sunlight streaming through the window dispelled the last shadows of the past.
“Mmm...” Rosalie sighed between kisses.
He gathered the hem of her nightgown in one hand. She raised her arms in cooperation as he lifted it over her head, baring her alabaster skin. Her breasts were high and firm, cherry-tipped, her bone structure as fine as Sèvres porcelain. Silken hair cascaded in loose curls over her shoulders. He sat back on his heels, his eyes ranging over her, savoring every detail.
“You’re so...beautiful,” he said at last, such fervency in his voice she broke into a rosy blush. The word seemed sadly inadequate, but despite his command of ten languages, he couldn’t think of any better way to express it. Just—
beautiful
.
He cast her nightgown aside, then rose up on his knees to pull off his own shirt, tossing it to the floor. Rosalie’s eyes widened slightly, more appreciative than fearful. She held out her arms, and he sank back down against her, bare skin to bare skin, her breasts yielding against the muscles of his chest.
He captured her mouth again with his. She was warm and soft—and he was hard. But this wasn’t simple lust. Protectiveness and wonder mixed with his desire.
Sweeping his fingertips lightly over her bare shoulder, he cupped her breast before continuing past her waist to the junction of her thighs. Unbidden, she parted her legs for him. He stroked gentle fingers into slickness and wet heat.
She touched him, too, shyly and tentatively. As her hand feathered over his arousal for the first time, he stifled a groan.
At the sound, she glanced up at him with an uncertain expression. “I don’t know what to do.” As if fearing he might change his mind, she added quickly, “I mean, I realize what’s meant to happen, but I’m not sure what you wish me to do for you.”
He mastered the urge to draw in his breath with a hiss at the tension her hand was awakening in his groin. “The only thing I wish right now is to please you.”
“Are you certain, David, because I want you to—”
He stilled her hand with his own. “I’m certain.”
She relaxed as he continued his exploration of her body. Having studied language all his life, he possessed a wealth of words for almost any occasion.
Serendipity
, the unlooked-for accident of stumbling into good fortune.
Felicity
, happiness.
Transcendence
, a state surpassing ordinary human experience. But try as he might, David still couldn’t think of a word equal to the joy of making love to his wife.
Everything he did was new to her—his hand between her thighs, his mouth at her breast, his slick fingers circling the most sensitive part of her, dipping inside her—and her rapturous sighs and eager gasps of discovery excited him as much as if it were his first time, too. But it wasn’t her virginity he found exciting, it was the rightness of being with her. Everything he was doing was an added way to make her happy.
He’d been mistaken, that time aboard the
Neptune’s
Fancy
when he’d thought that error and experience tarnished everything they touched. Sometimes, goodness cast everything around it in a bright new light.
Still, it
was
her first time, and he knew he was likely to cause her pain, at least momentarily. There wasn’t much he could do about that, but he meant to atone for it by taking his time and seeing to it she felt just as much pleasure as he did. No,
more
pleasure. Before he even began to think of his own need, he was going to leave her sighing in fulfillment.
So he trailed kisses down her body, pausing only long enough to tell her what he felt—how just the sight of her had him aching with need—his touch evoking inarticulate sounds of pleasure all the while.
Her hands clenched the sheets as her excitement built. When she finally cried out and quaked against him, inner muscles spasming around the two fingers he’d slipped inside her, he watched the rapturous look on her face with an unfamiliar awe.
She gave a deep, contented sigh, and her eyelids fluttered open. “Oh, David, that was...oh,
my
...”
He gazed down into her wide brown eyes, soft now with the dreaminess of satisfaction. “I wish you could see how lovely you are.”
She smiled, but her gaze dropped in the direction of his arousal. “But what about you?”
“Ah, yes,” he said with a nonchalance he didn’t feel. His turn. How long had it been...? He’d been married less than a month, known Rosalie only about two, yet it seemed he’d been waiting his whole life.
Need licked at his veins. He positioned himself between her thighs, his whole body electric with anticipation. She slid her arms around his neck, lifting herself against him, even more excited and inviting than before. That was the magical thing about the female body—the better the crisis was for a woman, the more ardent she became. Now
she
kissed
him
. It was still a sweetly trusting kiss, only fervent now with eager passion.
Though he’d done his best to prepare her, her breath caught in a quickly stifled gasp as he broke the barrier of her virginity.
He held still.
“Oh, don’t stop!” Her voice was husky. “Please, it feels good.”
He didn’t want to stop. Her cheeks were flushed with desire, her body loose-limbed from her earlier fulfillment. She loved him, wanted him. He’d confessed the truth and it didn’t matter, hadn’t spelled disaster after all.
He entered her slowly, careful to keep his growing excitement in check. Being inside her was better even than he’d imagined, silkier and tighter and somehow—God, once again a lexicon that spanned some three thousand years of language failed him completely.
This was paradise, the way she rocked against him, the softness of her, the breathless sounds of pleasure she was making. He had the same sense of galloping excitement he’d experienced when only half his present age, but unmarred now by the guilt and confusion of those earlier days.
He thrust into her only a few times and then, with a suddenness that startled him, he sensed himself tipping past mere excitement and into the building heat of climax. He grappled for self-control, trying to will back the feeling and make the experience last longer, but before he knew it, he was gasping and surging into her, overtaken by a pleasure so intense he could only bow his head and groan.
When he came to his senses again, he was a deadweight atop her. He could scarcely credit what had just happened. He hadn’t given such an undisciplined performance—or such a brief one—since he was only a youth.
He might as well have had no experience at all, for all the savoir faire he’d shown.
He rolled onto his back, stared at the canopy overhead for a moment in perplexity—and then burst into unexpected laughter. “Oh, my God. That was
wretched
. I mean,
I
was wretched. Forgive me, my love. I was sadly carried away. I promise to acquit myself better next time.”
Beside him, she dissolved into laughter, too—a liquid, musical sound, light and joyful. “Oh, David! I do hope you’re joking. If that was wretched, I doubt whether I could survive a really first-rate performance.” She gave a blissful sigh. “It was wonderful.”
He chuckled drowsily. He might just drift back to sleep for a time before he rose to dress and face the day. “Ah, but I can do so much better.”
“Can you?” She sounded similarly content and sleepy. “You’ll have to prove it to me.”
“Just let me catch my breath, Lady Deal.” He pulled her close so that her head rested on his shoulder. “It’s a most tempting offer, and I mean to take you up on it with satisfying regularity, but I’m not as young as I used to be.”