Lord Braybrook’s Penniless Bride (19 page)

Shudders rippled through him, and her arms curved around him, holding him safely to her, enjoying his weight, her hands shyly stroking his shoulders where muscles bunched and flickered beneath hot, damp skin. Briefly he turned his head and pressed his lips to her temple. Heat stung her eyes at the caress. Somehow she had thought kisses played a bigger part in the marriage bed.

She drew a breath. It was done. She had survived. She hoped he hadn’t found her too gauche and ignorant. He was still inside her, his weight shifted slightly to one side, utterly limp in her arms.
In her arms.
Her arms still encircled him, held him to her. She was clinging to him. Carefully she released him, forced her arms to fall to her sides.

His head lifted at once. Heavy lidded eyes opened, piercingly blue. Please, God, he could not see her thoughts, know that she felt wanton. Bracing his weight on his elbows, he withdrew from her body and rolled away to lie staring up at the canopy.

She swallowed. There seemed nothing to say. A stolen sideways glance showed his mouth set hard. Anger? Disappointment? Perhaps she had done something wrong, but she had no idea what and no way of finding out. She was all for plain speaking in this marriage, but she baulked at asking her husband how she had erred, not five minutes after resigning her virginity to him.

She wondered if he would fall asleep soon. She wanted to wash. She felt sticky and tender there.
There
where he had been. And she supposed there would be blood…

He sat up, pushing back the bedclothes, and she watched out of the corner of her eye as he left the bed and shrugged into a robe, stepping behind the screen. She heard water pouring, and flushed. If she was sticky, then…Moments later he reappeared in his nightshirt and robe, a flannel in his hand.

Her breath jerked in as he came around the bed to her and reached for the bedclothes. She sat up, clutching them to her.

‘My lord? Julian?’ She pulled herself together. ‘Thank you’, and held out her hand for the flannel. Cheeks hot, she held his gaze.

His mouth twisted. ‘As you wish,’ he said, handing her the cloth and turning away.

Snatching up her discarded nightgown, Christy dragged it over her head and scrambled out of bed, trying not to wince at the ache between her legs.

Julian took a shuddering breath as she disappeared behind the screen. What the hell did he say? Apologise? Promise it would be better next time? Could he keep that promise? None of his lovers had ever had cause to complain, but they had all been experienced and had come to him willingly, not acquiescing because he owned them body and soul and they had no choice. Nor had he ever lost control like that.

He felt like a brute. A rutting brute. She had been a virgin and he hadn’t even aroused her sufficiently not to hurt her, let alone bring her to pleasure as he ought to have done before taking her. Some pain had probably been unavoidable, but his conscience lashed
him—she had cried. There was no need to look for blood where she had lain. The blood on his body had been accusation enough.

It had not been even remotely good sex. Certainly not for her. And yet he had never felt such fierce pleasure sliding into a woman’s soft body, nor experienced such a shattering release.

Frustration. He’d wanted her too long. She had been a virgin too. He had never lain with a virgin.
Nothing like novelty to pique the appetite
, a sly, cynical voice murmured. Damn it! He’d never
wanted
to lie with a virgin before! And he hadn’t wanted that now. He’d just wanted Christy, beyond all rhyme or reason. Because she was Christy? He pulled back from that thought. Of course, he had not had a woman for months. Not since leaving London. Logical answers, explaining everything. His loss of control. His response.

It didn’t help. What sort of brute was he to have felt pleasure when Christy had felt only pain?

She reappeared from behind the screen, her colour high, her eyes shuttered.

He managed a smile. ‘Come. You must be tired.’

Quietly she climbed into the bed and lay down.

‘Goodnight.’

The catch in her voice tore at him. Unthinking, he leaned over and kissed her gently on the mouth, cradling her jaw, brushing his thumb over her cheek.

He felt shock leap through her and prepared to pull back, but her lips softened, parting, and he was lost. With a groan he accepted the invitation, his tongue surging deep. Fire exploded through him impossibly, searing every vein as his body hardened. So soft, so lovely. It would be better for her this time. Slower—

Damn it!

He released her mouth. He’d just taken her virginity, for God’s sake! Bad enough to hurt her; rutting on her again would be unforgivable.

‘Enough,’ he said tightly, forcing himself back to his side of the bed. ‘Goodnight.’ Staring up at the canopy, he felt her roll away from him.

Reality crashed in on him. This was his wife. In his bed. Or was he in her bed? Christy had been a virgin, but this part was new to him. He’d never slept, actually slept, with a woman. When he spent the night with a mistress, it didn’t involve sleep beyond brief dozes between bouts of sex. His aristocratic lovers had been literally drawing-room affairs—quick interludes snatched on a
chaise longue
fully clothed. This was different, lying sated and sleepy, listening to the whisper of a woman’s breathing, feeling her weight depressing the mattress, aware of her warmth and the hot, musky scent of their lovemaking. Very different, and perhaps not wise…

He awoke in the middle of the night to realise that someone else was in the bed—the warm, sweet fragrance of woman mingled with roses was all about him. Sleepily he reached out and gathered her to him. Christy. His. With a sigh she snuggled into him and he felt the soft huff of her breath through the linen of his nightshirt. Complete, he sank back to sleep.

Christy awoke, warm, safe and comfortable. She dozed, aware of nothing but the sensation of being cradled, cherished…She snapped awake to realise that she was in her husband’s arms, her cheek resting on the nightshirt covering his broad chest, and her nightgown around her waist leaving her shamelessly exposed, with a powerful thigh pushed between hers and a ridge of unyielding male flesh pressed into her hip. She felt that strange softening inside—the ache of…emptiness?

She looked up and met a hot blue gaze. Her breath shuddered out and her whole body turned to honey.

‘M…my—Julian?’

A queer look, almost revulsion, crossed his face. He pulled back, disentangling them, and adjusting his nightshirt.

Her cheeks fiery, Christy straightened her own nightgown, pushing it down around her legs where it belonged.

‘I am sorry. I…I am not used to—that is, I must have forgotten you were there, and rolled over.’

He stared. ‘No. I—’ He broke off. Then, ‘No matter. What would you wish to do this morning? Ride?’

Christy hesitated, wondering what
he
would prefer.

He reddened slightly. ‘No. I suppose not.’ He reached out to brush the backs of his fingers over her cheek. His mouth twisted. ‘I’m sorry.’

Her face heated. ‘I’m not…I’m quite all right.’ That other ache deepened, intensified at the gentle touch of his fingers.

He looked unconvinced and drew back, saying, ‘Tintern Abbey is close. We could walk there, or drive if you are tired.’

His tone was polite. Friendly, even. But distant. As though she were an acquaintance—not the woman he had spent the night with. As though they had not awoken in a warm, drowsy tangle. Yet there was that hesitance, an underlying concern in his voice and eyes.

It’s all right. I’m not sore.

The words froze on her tongue. Ridiculous, but she couldn’t say it. It was too intimate, entwined with another ache whispering hotly deep within her.

‘Tintern would be lovely,’ she said, sitting up. ‘And I should like to walk.’ Surely that would reassure him their wedding night had not crippled her?

Polite, friendly. That would be the rule for their marriage and her idiotic, romantic longings for
more
were to be squashed flat.

Polite and friendly. Considerate. Attentive. By the close of the day Christy knew she had nothing to worry about. Her husband was courtesy itself. And she had never felt more alone. Which was ridiculous. He had spent the entire day with her. Being kind. Friendly. And distant.

She stared at the closed door of her bedchamber. Now most definitely
her
bedchamber. Julian had spoken to Mrs Braxton and arranged another chamber. Ten minutes ago he had wished her a polite goodnight at the door and continued down the hall to his own room.

She felt as though she had intercepted a bucket of icy water. Surely she hadn’t been secretly hoping he would come to her
again? Oh, yes, she had. All day. And lying to herself. Pretending she didn’t want him, as if in doing so she could prevent him from ever realising that he had married a wanton.

C
hristy awoke alone on their last full day in Monmouthshire. Just as she had each morning after the first day. Although they had spent at least part of each day together, Julian had not come to her again at night. He had begun teaching her to drive a gig, they had ridden and walked. In the evenings he had read aloud while she sewed. Last night she had played the old harpsichord in the parlour while he listened. In some ways she knew him better now. She knew what he liked to read, what music he enjoyed, and that he loved apples. She knew he cared for his tenants and looked on his rank as more responsibility than privilege.

She knew
things
about him. She did not know
him
. And it seemed that was how he preferred it. His very courtesy was a barrier between them that she did not know how to breach. Or even if she should. She had thought consummating the marriage would make things easier.

They were not. Several times yesterday she had caught him watching her surreptitiously, his gaze so intent she had wondered if she were doing something wrong, or had a smudge on her nose. And still he had politely bidden her goodnight at the door of her bedchamber and gone to his own room, leaving her restless and far from sleep.

And now she was awake in a grey dawn. She pushed back the
covers and went to the window. Outside mist rose from the river and birds rejoiced at the day’s return. It could not be much past five, but sleep was far away.

Further down the river the dreaming arches of the abbey soared above the mist, as though nothing could ever disturb the ivy-clad walls and tumbled masonry. Later the ruins would echo with the voices and laughter of visitors, as it had the other day. It would be different now, lying at peace in the misty curve of the singing river. There would be the same stillness and belonging she had found on that day high above the river. Before Julian had kissed her for the first time, and the world had changed for ever.

It was only a mile to the abbey. She would be back in time for breakfast at eight easily. If she went now, it would just be herself, the birds, the murmuring river and the mist.

Julian blinked as the slender cloaked figure hurried out through the damp garden below towards the river path. In the pale light she looked insubstantial, a creature of the mist and dawn.

Yet he knew, none better, that she was a woman of flesh and blood. Last night he had nearly gone to her, tempted by the siren lure of warm, yielding softness. He had resisted. She had seemed edgy, restless. He thought he knew why; all day he had been watching her, wondering if it were too soon to take her again. It had probably made her nervous.

He flung off his nightshirt, washed and began to dress. All week he had taken her about, walking, driving, riding. Frustration aside, he had never enjoyed a week more. Just being with her had been a delight. He had taken her down to Chepstow one day to explore the castle. She had loved it, even crying when he told her about the final siege when Cromwell’s forces took the place and shot the commander on the spot.

Can we come again?

There probably isn’t time this visit.

Next time?

He hauled on his boots and stood up. He desperately wanted a next time, but without this frustration and guilt. All week he
had avoided the subject of that night. Ashamed of himself, worried it would embarrass her. Hoping it would sort itself out was idiocy. His was the experience, however illicitly gained. If anyone was to put this right, it would have to be him.

He followed her easily, her tracks clear on the damp path leading from the house towards the river. He thought he knew where she was going. The abbey would be peaceful now, before visitors arrived.

She was seated on a fallen block of masonry, her expression calm, distant, as though fixed on something beyond the river in its misty cloak. He hesitated, wondering if he should go back, or just wait until she returned from wherever it was she had gone.

Before he could step back, she swung around and her eyes widened as she came to her feet. ‘My lord? Julian?’

She still found it difficult to use his name, despite the fact that hers came to his lips so easily. He walked towards her.

‘Is something amiss?’ She flushed. ‘I suppose I ought not to be here alone—is that it? I am doing the wrong thing?’

He stared. Did she expect a scold? He supposed it was true enough—she ought not to be here alone.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I was awake and saw you leaving the garden, but I just wanted to talk to you.’

‘Oh.’ She relaxed a little.

‘You like it here?’ He sat down on the block she had vacated, leaving room for her.

‘Yes.’ She sat down again. Perhaps he had not left quite enough room. She was very close. The fragrance that had haunted him all week wove around him, insubstantial as the morning mist.

‘Christy?’

She looked up.

The stilted little speech died in his throat. Very carefully he lifted one hand, brushing the backs of his fingers along the line of her jaw, tracing her lower lip with a knuckle. Her lips parted and he heard the uncertain breath as her eyes widened.

Somehow his arms were around her and he bent his head and
took the kiss he had not known he was aching for. With other women kisses had been pleasant, but not necessary. With Christy, he realised on a wave of tenderness, kisses were vital. Perhaps for both of them. Her lips clung, the sweetest invitation. He fought the urge to deepen the kiss. For now this was enough—warm soft lips trembling under his, her body pressed to his, her arms holding him. This was right. But before there could be anything else he had to find the right words. Gently he broke the kiss and rested his cheek on the top of her head.

‘I wanted to apologise for hurting you,’ he said quietly. They were not the words he had planned, but they came easily. Like the kiss, they felt right.

‘Hurting me?’ She pulled back a little and stared up at him.

Denying the need to kiss her again, he brushed his lips over her temple and pulled her back against him. Somehow feeling her relaxed and trusting in his embrace made this easier.

‘The other night.’

A tremor ran through her and he held her closer. ‘Exactly. I wanted you to know that when I…when we come together again, it will not be like that. It won’t hurt again. You don’t need to fear me. I’ll leave it to you to decide when you wish to come to me.’ She stiffened, and he pressed a kiss on her hair. ‘No, you don’t have to say anything. Just come to me. And I’ll do my best to make it good for you. That’s all. I’ll leave you in peace now.’

He released her and rose. ‘I thought I might fish today, if you do not mind. I believe Mrs Braxton was going to show you some of her special recipes?’

Christy nodded. ‘Yes. This morning.’

He smiled. ‘I’ll see you at breakfast then.’

He walked away. And prayed he had said enough.

Christy spent a glorious morning in the kitchen with Mrs Braxton and had a notebook full of jams and preserves as well as stillroom recipes. She had been busy and occupied, but her mind kept drifting back to that early morning tryst. Julian’s gentleness. The sweetness of his kiss, and the reason he had not come
to her bed again. She should have overcome her idiotic shyness that morning a week ago. Told him in plain words that she was perfectly all right.

She thought about it after lunch as she set out for a walk. He thought she feared him. Physically. That their coupling the other night had left her unwilling. So he had stayed away from her and spent a week worrying that he had really hurt her because she had been embarrassed. She followed a path she knew led to a quiet backwater partially shaded with willow trees, hidden from the main river. It would be peaceful there, and she could think.

She didn’t doubt he had told her the truth. One thing she could count on with Julian—he always gave her the truth. She might not always like it, but that did not diminish the value of the gift.

He had left the ball in her court. She would have to go to him, and tell him when she wished him to come to her again because he did not trust himself. Something else he had said shifted beneath her worry about
how
to tell him.

Just come to me. I’ll do my best to make it good for you.

Those words thrummed through her with all the glorious promise of his hands on her body the other night, his mouth hot and demanding, his body burning against hers. Did he mean
she
was to enjoy it?

She came out of the woods into the clearing and saw the familiar, black horse grazing. Conqueror. And then she saw her husband standing on the bank, facing the river.

She gulped. Julian had been swimming. It was the only possible explanation for him to be dripping wet and stark naked.

She could always retreat. He had no idea she was there. But she stayed, her gaze riveted to his back. That one night, what with firelight, bedclothes and her own shyness, she had not seen him properly. Not like this. Broad shoulders gleamed wet, tapering to narrow hips and the taut curve of his buttocks, the long powerful legs. She had not realised that beauty could be masculine, encompass such power. She had not equated beauty with strength. She did now, and her heart pounded as heat rose inside her.

I’ll leave it to you to decide when you wish to come to me.

He hadn’t meant here on the river bank, for heaven’s sake! But she could tell him…tell him what? She reminded herself to breathe. It would be all right to tell him that she wouldn’t mind him coming to her bed again. Tonight, perhaps? Could she manage that without making a fool of herself? Without letting him know the mere sight of him had that hot ache twisting in her belly, and lower.

He should return to the manor, but the sun on his back was glorious after the chill of the river. As long as no one came along. But this backwater was very much on his land. Screened from the main river, few people knew it was here.

Conqueror whinnied, and Julian turned to see what had disturbed him. And found his wife, her eyes wide with what he assumed to be shock. They widened even more as her gaze moved down his body.

Naturally he did the only thing possible. He slid straight back into the river.

The chill was as shocking as ever, but he managed to find his voice. ‘Were you looking for me?’

‘Er, no. Not exactly. I mean, I didn’t know you were here, but I’m quite glad to see you.’

She’d probably seen a damn sight more than she’d bargained for.

‘Are you going to swim again?’ She came towards him.

He gritted his teeth. ‘No. I was about to get dry.’

‘Oh.’ She stopped. ‘Do you…should I go away?’

Something about her voice suggested she was deferring to
his
sensibilities. Not that he had many. Except he didn’t want to frighten her and right now, despite his assurance that the next time would not hurt, the sight of him probably
would
frighten her. Which confounded all precedent. Never before had he been violently aware of rampant, hard-edged lust while standing up to his chest in a distinctly chilly river. Only, he didn’t want her to go.

And she didn’t sound as though
she
wanted to go.

‘Pass me the towel and shut your eyes,’ he said.

She did as he requested and sat down, closing her eyes obediently. Right where he planned to get out.

He heaved himself out of the water and dried himself quickly. And carefully. He’d never realised quite how erotic a towel could feel. Swearing silently, he hauled on his drawers and breeches, and discovered a new problem. While he had on occasion been wearing breeches when this problem arose, he’d never had to button them up around it before. He struggled on, desperately ignoring the muslin-clad temptation beside him.

Finally succeeding with the breeches, he reached for his shirt.

Temptation spoke. ‘May I open my eyes yet?’

He shut his own eyes. She sounded exactly like a little girl with a present. He wondered if he would survive the experience of being unwrapped by her.

Swallowing raw desire, he managed to say, ‘If you wish.’

He couldn’t help watching as she opened her eyes. Watching as her gaze travelled over him, the oddest smile trembling on her lips. A smile that made him long to kiss her, feel her lips flower and part for him. He breathed deeply, fighting to retain his sanity, clutching his shirt. If he kissed her now, it wouldn’t end as chastely as it had this morning.

His shirt. He started to put it on.

‘You don’t need to put your shirt on, do you?’

The shirt dropped, forgotten, as disbelief radiated through him.

She reached out, curious fingers skimming his shoulder, the light tracery on bare skin shafting fire straight through him. He braced himself against the urge to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. To ease her down into the grass and make love to her until she moaned with pleasure. Need slammed through him in slow, hot waves, mounting with every heartbeat.

Jumping back in the river wouldn’t help. After all, he’d got into this state standing in the water. Instead of dousing desire, there would be steam rising off the water.

‘Julian?’

‘Yes?’

‘When you kissed me this morning—well, I liked it.’

His heart began to pound. ‘Did you?’

‘Yes. I…I always like it when you kiss me.’

‘You do?’ A slow, hot, heavy beat.

‘Yes. So, would you…would you kiss me again? Now? Please?’

Would he…? As he reached for her, she removed her spectacles carefully, folded them and set them on a convenient log.

Julian was drowning. Drowning in her taste, the sweet, wild response of her mouth, yielding to the passionate demands of his lips and tongue; drowning in the delight of her pliant body shifting beneath him, rounded arms drawing him closer.

Shaken to the core, he caressed the curve of her hip under the flimsy muslin and discovered that his fingers were bunching the material, pushing it out of the way.

He shouldn’t do this. Not here. Not now. But his body refused to obey the dictates of mind and conscience. Tenderly he kissed her, drinking the soft cry as he caressed the silken skin of one thigh. Easy, so easy to part her thighs, but if he did…No. He mustn’t. Not here. He hung on to the sliding reins of control.