CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

WHEN CÉCILE HAD taken him as her lover, the first thing she’d done was teach Mordecai about his own body. She’d shown him things he hadn’t known about his balls and his cock, but also about parts of himself that he’d never associated with erotic pleasure before. She had let him conquer his virgin’s shyness, his fear of being laughed at—and once he’d been completely confident she’d expanded his sexual education, introducing him to the more adventurous positions, challenging him to learn skills that required practice: pattes d’araignées, langue exercée, faire postillion.

That was how he intended to teach Eleanor Wrotham: confidence first, then skills.

But before that, he had to divest her of her virginity.

There wasn’t a lot of preparation he could do—except for one very important task: If he was to have the self-restraint he needed tonight, he needed to dampen down his own arousal.

Mordecai took care of that task as soon as Walter had gone, stroking himself briskly to a climax. That done, he washed his hands and waited.

Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. Mordecai was beginning to think that Eleanor had changed her mind when someone knocked quietly on his door.

His heart gave a leap in his chest. He crossed to the door, and opened it.

Eleanor Wrotham stood there, dressed in a nightgown. She wasn’t wearing the spectacles, nor was she wearing a wig. She was herself, her hair drawn back in a simple braid.

It was a long time since Mordecai had seen her hair, and he suddenly realized how much he’d missed it: that rich brown with the mahogany glints in it.

Eleanor hesitated a moment, and stepped into his room. She looked paler than she usually did and even more like a duchess—and slightly taller, too, as if she was holding herself tightly upright.

She’s nervous. And probably a little afraid.

“Nell . . .” Mordecai gently took her hands. The evening was warm, but her fingers were cool. “You can change your mind, if you wish.”

Her chin lifted. Her shoulders braced. She seemed to stand even taller. “No.”

He understood that the lifted chin and braced shoulders weren’t aimed at him; they were aimed at herself. She was trying to conquer her nervousness.

Mordecai gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He locked the door and drew her across to the four-poster. “Sit,” he said gently.

They sat on the edge of his bed, holding hands. After a moment, Mordecai turned her hand over, lifted it to his lips, kissed her palm softly—and then he licked, tasting her skin with his tongue, and felt Eleanor Wrotham shiver. He licked again, nipped lightly, then drew her closer and kissed her mouth.

The kiss started a little awkwardly, their mouths not quite matching, but then the awkwardness passed and their mouths did match and some of Eleanor’s tension fell away. Mordecai kissed her—and kissed her—and kissed her, until she was warm and soft and pliant in his arms, and then he shucked his dressing gown and lay down on the coverlet and drew Eleanor to lie alongside him, their bodies not quite touching.

He kissed her again. Long delicious minutes passed. Their bodies eased closer. She was clutching his nightshirt, and their mouths were hot and hungry, and Mordecai slid his arm around her waist and drew her even closer, so that their bodies nestled intimately against each other, nothing but her nightgown and his nightshirt between them.

He felt her shudder with arousal, felt her stiffen with shyness and alarm. She broke the kiss.

Mordecai didn’t let her draw away from him. He kept his arm around her waist, holding her close, letting her become accustomed to the heat and hardness of his cock pressed against her belly.

A minute passed. Mordecai moved his hips, rocked gently—and felt her quiver.

He did it a second time, a third time—and her hips instinctively rocked back.

Mordecai gave a low murmur of encouragement and slid his hand down from her waist and cupped one buttock in his hand, enticingly round beneath the nightgown. She stiffened slightly. “Relax, Nell,” he whispered, and rocked against her, and after a moment’s hesitation she pressed back.

They kissed each other, rocked against each other, slowly at first, and then more urgently, her body pressing eagerly to his, and he knew she was no longer alarmed by his hand on her buttock or his cock nestled against her belly.

Satisfied, Mordecai released her. He sat up and stripped off his nightshirt. Eleanor watched him in the candlelight. She had huge, dark eyes. Flushed cheeks. Well-kissed lips.

When he was naked he didn’t reach for her, but stayed where he was and let her look at him. She did, an intent and wondering inspection.

His nipples tightened under that perusal. So did his balls.

“Your turn,” Mordecai said softly.

She hesitated, and he saw a blush bloom on her cheeks, and then she sat up and undid the buttons at her throat, and pulled the nightgown over her head, her movements shy and self-conscious.

Mordecai’s throat grew tight. He was extremely glad that he’d taken care of himself earlier.

Eleanor didn’t have Sarah Tarleton’s ripe figure or Véronique’s dusky skin, but she was a beauty in her own right. Her curves were her own, the pale, smooth skin was purely hers, that patrician face, those haughty eyelids. She was unique, and perfect, and sitting on his bed, so close that he could reach out and touch her.

Mordecai did just that. He reached out and lightly touched her cheek, and felt her tremble, and then he slid his fingers down to the nape of her neck and leaned in and drew her to him and kissed her tenderly.

Their lips clung together and he was aware of her shyness, her self-consciousness, and also her eagerness.

Mordecai laid his hand carefully on her bare knee and felt her tremble and quiver—and then she placed her hand daringly on his knee.

They traded touches and kisses while the candle burned down in its holder. Mordecai explored Eleanor Wrotham from head to toe, showing her that every part of her body was made for pleasure, and he let her explore, too, let her acquaint herself with his chest, his thighs, his groin. The feather-light brush of her fingers as she examined his balls, the whisper of her fingertips over his cock—following the veins, skimming over the smooth, blunt head, outlining the slit—inflamed him more than Cécile’s expert handling ever had. He came closer to losing control and spilling all over himself than he had in years. Mordecai clenched his jaw, gritted his teeth, felt the tendons in his neck stand out—and then the moment of danger passed, and he was in control of his body again.

He laid Eleanor on the bed and brought her to a climax with his fingers, delving into her tight, wet, fragrant heat. “Pattes d’araignées,” he whispered in her ear. And then he brought her to a second climax with his tongue. “Langue exercée.”

He let her catch her breath, then brought her to the brink again—and stopped.

“Oh, God, Mordecai.” Eleanor’s voice held a groan. She was almost writhing on the bed, flushed and quivering. The bedchamber was warm, shadowy, candlelit, fragrant with their arousal.

Mordecai laughed. It came out hoarsely because he was almost as mindless with need as she was. He settled himself over her. “It might hurt. First times can.”

“I don’t care.” Eleanor clutched his arms, arching up, pressing against him, urgent and eager—and Mordecai had another moment when he almost lost control, when he almost spilled his seed before he’d even entered her.

He held himself still, didn’t move, didn’t breathe—and the moment passed—and he inhaled a shuddering breath and entered her carefully.

She was tight—exquisitely tight—and hot and slick and eager. Mordecai pushed into her slowly and felt her body accommodate him, felt muscles tighten . . . and then ease to let him in.

“Does that hurt?” he asked when he was fully sheathed.

“Not much,” Eleanor said breathlessly, and her hips moved, instinctively urging him on.

And so he did what her body craved, what his body craved, and withdrew and sank into her a second time.

“Does it hurt?” he asked again.

“No.” Her hips moved again. Véronique would have said, Stop talking and just fuck me, but Eleanor Wrotham didn’t have that vocabulary. Mordecai understood the language of her body, though, so he gave her what she wanted. What they both wanted. There was none of the awkwardness he’d anticipated. The rhythm built swiftly and naturally, a much faster rhythm than he’d intended. This was no leisurely lovemaking, but urgent and gasping, straining against each other. Eleanor climaxed quickly, and then almost immediately a second time.

Cécile had taught him that good lovemaking was about control and stamina, but Mordecai had neither control nor stamina tonight. He withdrew hastily. He didn’t have time to reach for his handkerchief, but climaxed helplessly, fiercely, spilling his seed over his hands in great spurts—and when it was over he lay gasping on the bed, half-dazed. Christ.

Mordecai groped in his dressing-gown pocket for a handkerchief and cleaned himself. Then he gathered Eleanor Wrotham in his arms. She nestled close.

He stroked the damp tendrils of hair at her temple, pressed a kiss there, and felt ridiculously pleased with himself. He’d given her a night he knew she’d never forget.