Edith Layton (3 page)

M
iles climbed into the bed beside his bride. She still hadn’t opened her eyes.

“Very proper,” he said, close to her ear. “My mistake. I suppose I ought to have crawled into bed, pulled the covers up over my ears, and
then
wriggled out of my dressing gown. But I thought that might be even more alarming.”

She giggled. He cocked his head to the side. It was a strange sound coming from her. A giggle? From this worldly lady? There was, he realized, much he didn’t know about his bride.

What he did know, he liked. Apart from her looks, he appreciated her wit, and she had the social skill and standing he needed in a wife. All surfaces, he knew. He’d never asked for more. Nor had she. They didn’t need to know more, strictly
speaking. Not for marriage, and certainly not for what they were about to do. But it made things a bit difficult for him, this, their first time.

He wasn’t a cold man, as his sister, Camille, accused him of being. Or heartless, as she’d insisted. He was practical, or at least he’d been harried to practicality by his little family. He returned to England with his pockets full, only to find he had his hands full as well. He needed someone to manage Camille and find her a place in society before she ruined herself as his mother had done. He needed someone to help his mother regain her place in society, and someone for his brother, Bernard, that wretch, to aspire to, so he’d get on with becoming civilized.

But it was true that he’d only thought himself in love twice. The first time he’d been at university and became lost in love for a local barmaid that he’d some vague dramatic plans for saving. Until she told him with no nonsense that he hadn’t the funds for the kind of savings she was after. The second time had been Clarissa, and she’d been forced to marry someone her father wanted. Still, since he’d got the himself drunk for only a few weeks after her defection, he couldn’t have been that far gone. He might remember her now and again, but that didn’t mean he pined for her. He was, as he’d told Camille, a practical man.

He might not always have been so practical, but
there was no way to know. Mama had gone and married Peter Proctor. Now all his notions of love had been sacrificed to duty, and at two and thirty, he doubted he was susceptible anymore. But, luckily, a fellow didn’t need to lose his heart to find pleasure. And Lady Annabelle filled all his requirements for a wife, not the least being that her looks pleased him mightily.

There was nothing wrong in taking some comfort for himself while he set his family to rights, was there? He’d been on his own too long anyway, and looked forward to sharing his life. If he had to marry, he decided to make it as pleasant as possible for himself. And he had no patience with young misses. He shuddered to think of making love to some giddy girl. The worldly widows he’d met since he’d started looking for a wife hadn’t been his style either.

He’d been hunting for a wife since autumn, when he’d returned to England and discovered the mess his family was in. The females whose minds meshed with his didn’t have bodies that could; either they were too old or they were already married. He didn’t have the luxury of waiting much longer for true love to come to him—if it even could. Camille was bent for hell in a hand-basket, if not on purpose, then because she was far too open and friendly; she practically begged for someone as evil as their stepfather had been to
lure her into an equally disastrous marriage. Her come-out in London had already been delayed, he couldn’t let her wait another year.

And if his mama wept any more she’d float away. It was even worse when she tried to be stoic. She was too alone. If he married someone who could settle her back in society, she might smile again.

And his brother, Bernard, would be done with school one of these days, if he could only apply himself to it, and he needed a name he could be proud of.

Miles needed a wife, and quickly. He’d taken an exquisite one, sophisticated, awake on all suits—except one, it seemed. Now he had to teach her how to give and receive pleasure, because sharing pleasure made it even better. He thought he could accomplish that.

He knew his physical assets as well as his financial ones, and used both to his best advantage. He wasn’t extravagantly athletic, like one of the Corinthian set. Nor was he remotely a dandy, or in the current style of willowy, brooding, demon-ridden poets either. There wasn’t anything wrong with him, but he was, he thought, rather spectacularly ordinary.

Still, he’d built a fortune out of nothing, and had always been able to win the women he wanted by using the same tactics. A man with few assets had to compensate. And, as far as he knew,
he’d never made love to a woman who regretted it. He was determined that his bride wouldn’t regret him either. The sooner he showed her that, the better.

He turned on his side, elbow on a pillow, head propped on a hand. He smiled at her. “Do you usually sleep sitting up?”

He heard a surprised chuckle. “Are we going to sleep?”

“Eventually,” he said softly.

She went still. Then silently, obedient but stiff, she lay down on her back, until she looked exactly like the figure of a woman carved on her own tomb.

He sighed. Then he reached over and toyed with an inky curl, slowly pulled the ribbon from her hair. Her freed tresses spilled out, black as the surrounding night. They tumbled through his fingers as he ran a hand through them.

“Annabelle?” he asked. And didn’t give her time to answer. Instead, he raised himself over her and brushed his mouth across hers. It took all his resolve to resist the urge to discover whether that slight tingle of electricity he’d felt would grow to fire. He drew back. And waited.

Did he expect her to speak? Annabelle wondered.

How could she? This was a kind of agony. She was a woman who always knew what to say, what to do. She knew, of course, what he meant to do.
She’d grown up in the countryside and had noticed animal behavior. She’d spied humans coupling in the shadows in unsavory parts of London her carriage had passed through too. Once, at a masquerade, she’d come upon a couple who weren’t as hidden as they thought they’d been. A person couldn’t live to her age and not know what men and women did together.

Her mother had offered marital advice only days before, a labored duty for her, talking about what she herself obviously detested. Embarrassed, Annabelle made a joke to turn her attention. They were close, but never in the way of friends. Annabelle hadn’t had an intimate girlfriend since she herself had been a girl. Her mother said that was due to jealousy on other girls’ parts, because she was too beautiful. It didn’t matter. She knew enough.

It seemed an awkward, undignified business at best. But she was a woman of honor; she paid her debts. This was part of the bargain. It was a social embarrassment she couldn’t talk her way around.

He brushed his lips against hers again, and she realized he was waiting for a different kind of response.

She lay resigned, and let him do as he would.

But he wouldn’t.

“Has my wife fainted, I wonder?” he mused, moving his mouth from hers.

“I was just trying to be accommodating,” she snapped, because she couldn’t bear being made fun of. But then she shivered because he moved his mouth to her ear, and the sensation of his light breath there diverted her.

She’d let men kiss her before, so she could see what it was like and how she’d respond. No man’s kiss had ever been as she’d imagined Damon’s would have been, so she stopped experimenting. Still, there’d been times when it was expected, and she allowed it. Miles had also kissed her, but his had been infrequent, undemanding kisses, more ceremonial than ardent. They were different tonight. His mouth was questioning hers, and it moved her as never before. She closed her eyes, and was diverted even more.

It must be the lateness of the hour, she thought, the deepness of the night, the proximity of this man and what she knew he had every right to do. He was warm, his scent clean: soap, red wine, and some newer, sweeter spices. She was curious, Annabelle admitted to herself, which was natural enough after all these years.

She shivered. He hadn’t grabbed or grasped her, merely letting his lips brush against her, here and there, and what seemed like everywhere.

“Accommodating is nice,” he breathed against her neck. “I’m not complaining about accommodation,” he whispered as his mouth touched the
inner curl of her ear. “But cooperation would be much better,” he said as his lips airily grazed hers again.

Her eyes flew open. “Cooperation? What do you want me to do?” She really didn’t know. As she understood it, this was a thing a man did, and a woman let have done. She was letting him, wasn’t she?

He drew back, watching her with a slight frown.

She’d been promised to Damon Ryder, kept company with the Earl of Drummond and Rafe Dalton, among many other men of the world. And she didn’t know what he wanted of her? If she were lying, he’d soon find out, so what would be the point? He was fascinated anew.

There were men who considered only the act itself worthwhile, and that act a hasty matter of minutes. Such men prided themselves on their speed of completion. Their own Prince was said to be one such. Miles believed that lovemaking, like enjoyment of wine or food, was an Epicurean matter, something to be lingered over. Or so he felt, and he doubted other men Annabelle kept company with felt differently. There were, after all, things a woman could do and keep her virginity intact. Hadn’t she experienced anything of lovemaking at all? There were a dozen questions he couldn’t ask her, not here, not now, not yet.

Or she could be shamming. Words wouldn’t
tell him what he most wanted to know. But damme, he thought, this was awkward.

“Well, you’re here. And you’re complacent enough…” He hesitated. If she was lying, he didn’t want to say anything she’d find amusing. If she wasn’t, he didn’t want to alarm her. Inspiration struck. “Doubtless some men would be vastly content with complacency. But I’ve always felt that lovemaking is like the dance. If one person is stepping to the music, turning, keeping time, and so on, and his partner is merely letting herself be moved by him, it isn’t much fun for either, is it?”

She looked puzzled.

“For example,” he persisted, “even in the dance a lady holds on to her partner. So to begin, if you could think of this as sort of a horizontal waltz?” He fought the urge to smile at his simile, a warped version of what prudes said about the waltz. Laughter could ease the way in most instances, but it wasn’t appropriate now—if she was being sincere.

He thought he saw her skin take on a ruddy hue, but it could have been a flare of lamplight. She put one hand on his shoulder, the other on his upper arm. Just lightly, tentatively, but it made him shiver.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Now, if you could try to…” “Respond” was the word he was looking for, but it wasn’t a thing he’d ever had to ask a
woman to do. In fact, at this point, or rather, in this position, a bargain had always been struck or an understanding reached, and eagerness had never been a problem. He struggled for control and inspiration. “Let your emotions free,” he told her. “It is like dancing, my dear. It’s also like swimming,” he said a little desperately, when she simply lay there staring at him. “Do you know how to swim?”

“My father taught me,” she said in a small voice, looking at him as though he’d grown another head.

“Excellent. So if you could just let go…I mean let go of your guard on your feelings, not of me; that felt very good,” he said on a huff of a laugh as she dropped her hands as though his skin were boiling hot. “Yes, thank you, that’s better,” he said when her hands came back to where they’d been. “Holding me is good, touching me would be too.” He felt the tension in her body. “But only if you wish to,” he added quickly.

“For now,” he said, “I only meant that you should trust that I won’t let you sink or fall. Just feel what we’re doing. Like listening to the music when you dance,” he said, as he put his lips to her cheek. “Like floating free,” he said as his mouth sipped at her neck, and his hand moved to her breast. “Like being free,” he murmured as he pushed her shift aside and brought his lips to the suddenly peaked nipple his palm had discovered.

She caught her breath. The sensation was exquisite. She’d been touched before too, briefly. But this! This was beyond words. She was shocked at her reaction and pleased by his. Because he seemed as thrilled as she was. But surely he didn’t mean she should do to him as he was doing?

It was hard to think of what he meant or what she should be feeling, because as his lips and hands moved on, feeling was definitely overwhelming her thinking. That seemed to please him so much, because he was murmuring, “Yes, so sweet, yes, precisely, this is so good, isn’t it, Annabelle?”

It was. His body was strong, his touch feather-light, yet searing. He had wide shoulders, a hard chest, and lean muscles in his arms. The feel of him against her skin was strange, yet thrilling. Her eyes were closed tight so she wouldn’t see what she was doing or having done to her, which might embarrass her enough to ruin it. It also kept her pleasure focused where she could concentrate on it. She couldn’t feel guilt because they were married and this was permitted, but it went beyond her imaginings.

Her night shift was gently pushed aside; she felt soft curly hair under her hand and realized she was stroking his head as it moved to her other breast. His lips on her nipple felt marvelous, his tongue made her senses leap. It was shocking; it was delightful. She squirmed to help him get her
shift further off her shoulders, then wriggled, trying to move it down from where it had rolled up in a coil at her midriff. Finally, in frustration, she raised up her bottom so they could just get the night shift off and gone because it was the only thing between them. He’d said this would be like swimming, like dancing. But it wasn’t. It was like nothing she’d ever known.

When his hand went lower, her eyes flew open. He was watching her, his eyes heavy-lidded, his voice soft but strained.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said. “This is not perverse. Try it, trust me, just wait, you’ll see.”