“You may delay, if you like. But eventually, dear boy, you shall give me what I want, or resign yourself to a life of misery.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Charles, upon his continued resistance to producing a grandchild.
An hour later, curled up in a cozy chair next to a crackling fire in her bedchamber, Jane’s heart rolled like a ship at sea. Would he declare his love for her? Would he at last break his long silence and tell her the truth of his devotion?
Hurriedly, she turned the page. Yes! He would. He did.
“‘I cannot make speeches, Emma,’ he soon resumed; and in a tone of such sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably convincing. ‘If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.’”
She closed her eyes and pressed the book to her chest. Even upon the fifth reading, that line still thrilled her to her toes. “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.” She sighed, savoring the words like a fine port, then continued the story.
A firm knock followed by the sound of a door opening and closing interrupted the emotional scene. Without looking up, she waved a hand in the direction of the intruder. “Not now, Estelle. I am just getting to the good part.”
The throat being cleared had a distinctly masculine ring to it.
Freezing mid-sentence, Jane slowly raised her gaze, finding first a pair of large, stocking-clad feet, then a pair of black trousers, and finally the whole of Blackmore standing less than six feet from her, wearing an unreadable expression. Awkwardly, she scrambled to her feet, dropping Emma on the floor. “Oh, dear.” She bent forward to retrieve it, managing to bump the side table with her hip and slosh chocolate from china cup into china saucer with a clink. “Oh, dear,” she repeated, straightening abruptly and twisting to glance behind her at the mess.
“Jane.”
She twisted back. “Yes?”
“Calm yourself.”
Adjusting her spectacles, she dropped the book onto her chair and folded her arms across her waist. He had removed his cravat and tailcoat and waistcoat. His white linen shirt gaped open at the neck, revealing a triangle of skin and a hint of hair rising from the muscles of his chest.
Her hands dropped to her sides where they pressed against the claret silk of the lace-trimmed peignoir Estelle had laid out for her. Earlier, Jane had wondered at the choice, but most of the garments provided by Mrs. Bowman were equally decadent, so she had shrugged and slipped it on before sitting down to her nightly cup of chocolate and a good book.
Blackmore’s eyes narrowed and dropped to her uncorseted bosom, his nostrils flaring on an indrawn breath. The heat of his focus caused her nipples to harden, the embarrassing reaction, in turn, generating a warm flush.
“I—I wasn’t expecting you,” she stuttered. “What are you doing? Here. Tonight. I thought …” Her voice faded as he took two steps toward her, bringing with him the scent of sunlight and crisp air and … oh, simply him. Weakness flooded her legs, fluttered in her belly.
“You thought … what? That I would wait forever?” His low rasp rippled over her skin. “I am your husband. It is my right to enter this room whenever I choose. Particularly for the first time since our wedding.”
Bloody hell. She had suspected his motives the moment she saw him standing in her bedchamber, half undressed. But not before that. Not the slightest bit. She had, in fact, decided he might very well intend to wait forever. Obviously, she had presumed incorrectly. Her stomach twisted, the feeling akin to plunging from a sheer cliff. Her skin went cold, then hot. Her teeth pressed into her lower lip. She could not seem to catch her breath.
He took another step closer, leaving mere inches between them. One of his hands came up to stroke her hair, which Estelle had brushed and left loose and straight. The sensation of his fingers sifting through the strands caused shiver after shiver to run over her skin like rain droplets on a leaf.
“What book were you reading?”
His scent surrounded her, making her dizzy. Making her melt. “Book?” she breathed. “I … it is called Emma. It is the story of a girl whose father …” She ran out of words the moment his fingers stroked softly behind her ears, caught on her spectacles, and lifted them ever-so-gently from her face. “Never mind,” she sighed, letting her eyes drift closed.
His hands came back to cup the sides of her head. Something warm brushed over her forehead, her eyelid, her cheek. Drifted down to the corner of her mouth. Then moved against her lips with a tender pressure. He was kissing her, she realized. The Duke of Blackmore was kissing her.
“Jane,” he whispered, his heated breath washing against her chin.
“Hmm?”
“This will go easier if you relax.”
Her eyes popped open. She was close enough that she could see some detail of his face. It appeared he was grinning slightly. “Are you laughing at me?” she demanded.
“Not at all.”
“I don’t believe you.”
His hands busied themselves untying the sash beneath her bosom, his knuckles brushing against the cushion of her breasts. “Why would you think so?”
“I can hear it in your voice. It is grossly unfair. You know I have never done this.”
He slipped her robe off her shoulders and tossed it over the chair. “Yes,” he answered. “I am aware.”
“Then you should also know I have little notion of what is expected.”
“I am relieved to hear it,” he said.
She frowned and squinted up at him. “Relieved? I thought you were amused.”
“A wife should be innocent when she first comes to her husband. It is only right.”
Sighing in exasperation, she glared up in the general direction of his eyes. “I don’t know what I am supposed to do. That leaves me at a disadvantage. Besides which, I cannot see a thing without my spectacles. You are a blur. Quite handsome. But a blur, nonetheless.”
He was quiet for a moment before saying thoughtfully, “Would you prefer to wear your spectacles?”
Her relieved, “Yes, I would,” was answered immediately with the frames being smoothly slipped back into place on her nose.
“There,” he said, his chiseled jaw blurry no longer. “Better?”
She nodded, suddenly feeling his proximity at double its customary force. She could see the shadow of his beard beneath his skin, the slight flush along his cheekbones, the reflection of firelight in his eyes, which were darker than usual.
Perhaps she should have left the spectacles off.
“Now,” he said in the manner of a tutor instructing a student, “let’s begin with kissing. Allow your lips to soften and accept the caress of mine.” He proceeded to demonstrate by cupping her cheeks in his palms and bending to stroke his lips over hers. She tried to keep her eyes open—how much could she learn without sight, after all?—but they drifted closed of their own volition, just as her hands automatically rose to stroke the backs of his where they held her face with such gentleness.
Warmth like she had never experienced began to glow inside her as his lips nibbled and caressed hers. It started low in her belly, blooming outward like a flower seeking the sun. Just as the feeling emboldened her to begin matching his pressure, meeting his caresses with some of her own, he pulled back, dropping his hands.
She opened her eyes. They widened as soon as she saw what he was doing. He was removing his shirt, pulling the thing off over his head. “Oh. Oh, my, your grace,” she breathed. He was even more thoroughly muscled than she had suspected. Being so tall and lean and distinguished when clothed, it was easy to dismiss the man’s physique as typical of an aristocrat. But, as she had learned in the carriage and, really, whenever she came into close proximity, he was almost unnaturally strong. And now she understood why. He looked like one of the Greek figures depicted in Lord Elgin’s marbles, but with a bit of light-brown hair along the upper half of his chest.
“What is wrong?” he demanded, glancing down at his own torso. She didn’t blame him. It was most captivating.
“N-nothing. Nothing at all. Are you much accustomed to exercise, your grace?”
He frowned. “I enjoy fencing. And riding, of course. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no particular reason.”
“I shall never hurt you, Jane.”
Her eyes flew up to his. Of course he wouldn’t. The thought had never occurred to her. Why would he say—?
“No more than necessary, in any event.”
“I beg your pardon?”
His color deepened, and he lifted one hand to rub the back of his neck. The movement caused the smaller muscles along his belly to tighten and ripple in a riveting fashion. She swallowed hard. He answered, “There will be some discomfort the first time. Thereafter, you should find it less trying.”
“So, the discomfort is all on my part. Do I understand correctly?” She asked the question only to poke at him a bit. Annabelle had already explained the pain she would experience.
“Yes.”
“Hmm.”
“It is unavoidable. But I shall take every care to lessen your difficulty.”
“How?”
“By helping you to relax.” He glanced over his shoulder at the green-silk canopied bed, then back at her. “Perhaps we should lie down.”
She paused, considering his suggestion, and then nodded. He walked to the bed and drew the covers back, waving her closer. She obeyed, moving to stand in front of him. Again, his hands stroked her hair, lifting it away from her shoulders and placing it behind her back. His slow, careful movements reminded her of a groom tending a nervous filly.
Bending to kiss her again, he held her chin between his finger and thumb, stroking her skin softly. She sighed against his mouth, moving closer until she felt his arms snake around her back, tightening so that her breasts flattened against the hard contours of his abdomen.
His heat was incredible, fairly burning her through the silk of her gown. Inside, restlessness took hold, forcing her hips forward to rub wantonly against his thighs. Something prodded her belly. A hard, swollen something of a rather insistent nature. His appendage, she concluded, growing a trifle alarmed upon recalling Annabelle’s description of the consummation process.
Suddenly, the slick presence of his tongue glided along the seam of her lips, and on instinct, she opened so he could slip inside, where he stroked and pressed and pleasured her mouth. He tasted cool and warm all at once, like mint and vanilla. Her arms stretched up between them to wrap around his neck. She desperately wanted more. Tightening her grip, she attempted to pull him closer, to increase the pressure of his mouth against hers.
He groaned, his arms squeezing forcefully around her waist until her feet left the floor. Placing her on the bed as if it were nothing, he maneuvered them until she laid flat on her back and he rested half on top of her, half on the bed. His legs scissored between hers, his thigh rubbing in the most delicious way along the juncture that ached and clenched for him. She moaned and dared to thrust her tongue insistently against his, craving his flavor, needing him to do … something.
Only, he did not do as she wished. Instead, he broke the kiss, his chest working fast with his panting. For a moment, his head hung between them as if he needed to gather himself. Rolling onto his side, he sat up to douse the lamp beside the bed, casting their portion of the room into deep shadow.
She felt him leave the bed, heard the sound of cloth sliding over skin, then felt the mattress depress as he returned to lie beside her. Her arms automatically circled his neck, but he gently clasped her wrists and placed her hands beside her shoulders.
“It is better this way,” he rumbled, his voice nearly unrecognizable. “Just lie back and let me touch you.”
Touch her he did, first with his lips against the side of her neck, nibbling and suckling. Then with his hands, sliding his palm over her breast, stroking her nipple through the silk of her gown until she moaned and writhed, her lungs laboring to take in more air. Several times, she lifted her hands to brush his face or clutch his hair, but each time, he returned her arms carefully back to her sides, causing her to grunt in frustration.
Finally, he began to bunch the skirt of her nightgown further up her thighs, which gave her a chance to rub her bare legs against his hairy ones. It was an intriguing sensation, one she did not have time to dwell upon. For, the next thing she felt were his fingers stroking her inner thigh. When they brushed against her most intimate place, her whole body jerked in surprise. They lingered, however, soothing the flesh there, drawing forth what felt like an unusual amount of moisture. Was this normal? She did not have breath enough to ask, feeling as winded as she did after racing her sisters up the long, snowy hill near their country house.
Only, she did not feel cold now. Indeed, she was heated through until her bones melted, leaving her liquid and malleable in his hands. His thumb swirled pleasurably around a sensitized spot within the folds of her intimate place, ratcheting up her restlessness to an unbearable degree. She wanted to arch into him, to moan and beseech him to take action. But clearly, her husband was not comfortable with her making demands. His movements were all slow, careful, deliberate. He controlled both himself and her, binding them in this limiting dance.
He moved between her thighs, gripping her knees and splaying them up and wide apart for his hips. Finally—finally—she thought, squirming to accommodate his weight and unaccustomed presence. A hot pressure parted her, slowly entering. Stretching. Stretching unbearably. She grunted and bit her lip at the burning pain.
He lowered his face into the crook of her neck and thrust his hips forward in a swift, controlled movement. She wanted to whimper at the sudden heat and pressure and pinching pain. But she fisted the sheet beneath her and forced herself to remain quiet. He pulled out almost completely. She breathed a sigh of relief—which quickly became a gasp as he thrust heavily back inside her, repeating the motion again and again, the muscles in his arms and chest and neck distended and shaking as he supported his weight above her.
After the first few thrusts, her body began to ease, the pain to lessen, just as he had predicted. It even seemed to welcome the sliding fullness, the heated friction. But just as she began to think this process might be tolerable—even enjoyable—her husband stiffened and thrust one final time, groaning her name into her neck, his hips jerking twice more before collapsing atop her, obviously finished for the night.
Moments later, his chest heaving, he carefully slid out of her, his appendage softer for his efforts. Rolling away to lie on his back beside her, his breathing slowly returned to normal. “Are you well, Jane?” he asked, his voice rasping and raw, yet eminently polite.
“Of course,” she answered neutrally. “You were most considerate, your grace.”
Her comment was met with a long silence. Within minutes, she felt him leave the bed, heard him pick up his shirt and trousers. The door between their chambers quietly opened and closed.
Reaching up, she removed her spectacles and blindly placed them on the bedside table. She hadn’t needed them after all. It was too dark to see anything. She suspected he had not wished to look at her. Else, why douse the light? Why leave her gown in place until the last moment? She still wore the thing, gathered in folds above her hips.
A tight ache settled deep into her chest, twisting and burning, centered around her heart. It overshadowed even the soreness between her thighs. She fisted the blanket and drew it further over her body as she turned onto her side and curled inward, suddenly chilled after all that unsatisfying heat.
Annabelle had lied to her. She did not know why. Perhaps her sister had worried that Jane would balk if she knew. But in her mind, she penned a scathing rebuke to her eldest sibling. Dearest Annabelle, she would write. This night, I discovered a most disturbing fact—that you are only too capable of misleading me, and to my great dismay, I am fool enough to have listened. However, the truth must be stated: Marital relations are approximately as “transporting” and “blissful” as taking a hack to Piccadilly. After the initial excitement and anticipation have passed, the journey is fraught with jarring motion, odd smells, and general discomfort. And in the end, dear sister, one is left with only this—the distinct feeling of having been robbed.
*~*~*