The Runaway Heiress (8 page)

'No.' She sighed, lowering
her hands to her lap. 'In all honesty I cannot.'

'I like your honesty,' he
commented gently. 'I would like you to have this. It is a personal gift.' From
his pocket he withdrew a flat black velvet box. He handed it to her. It was
much worn at the corners, and the clasp had broken loose. In the centre was a
faded coat of arms stamped in gold. 'A bride gift, if you like. My mother still
has all the family heirlooms and jewellery. I will arrange for you to have the
ones that suit. There are some very pretty earrings, I believe, and a pearl set
that you would like. But this belonged to my grandmother. She left it to me to
give to my wife. It is a trifle old fashioned and not very valuable, but it has
considerable charm and I hope you will wear it until I can give you something
better.'

Frances opened the box to
reveal a faded silk lining. On it rested an oval silver locket on a fine silver
chain. The workmanship was old and intricate with a delicacy of touch. Its
surface was engraved with scrolls and flowers, the centres of which were set
with small sapphires. She opened the locket. Inside she found the empty
mountings for a miniature with the words engraved on the opposite side
My Beloved is Mine.

'It is beautiful,' she
said softly, tracing the delicate scroll work with a finger, unable to meet his
eyes. 'I have never been given jewellery before.'

He took the locket from
her and moved to clasp it round her throat. 'The roses seemed appropriate, Fair
Rosalind.'

The
brief touch of his fingers on her neck as he fastened the clasp sent a shiver
through her tense body. Her eyes, wide and dark, met his fleetingly in the
mirror. He nodded.

'It
suits you very well. There is a sapphire necklace the exact colour of your
eyes.' He hesitated, lost in their depths for the length of a heartbeat. 'But I
fear that my mother will refuse to part with it this side of the grave.'

The
locket lay on her breast, the tiny sapphires catching the light like pinpointed
stars with her heightened breathing.

She
would have moved away from him, but he took hold of her wrist in a firm grasp,
using his free hand to tilt her chin upwards. With one finger he traced the
outline of her lips, his featherlight touch, delicate and reflective. Her
breath caught in her throat as she read the intention in his eyes. His arm slid
around her waist, drawing her closer, and he bent his head to press his mouth
to the pulse fluttering at the base of her neck, just above where the locket
gleamed in the candlelight. Her immediate instinct was to raise her hands and
push against his shoulders. Sudden fear engulfed her, surprising her in its
intensity.

He
raised his head. His eyes were devastatingly clear and possessive. 'Don't fight
me, Frances.'

'I
am not fighting,' she managed to gasp as he renewed his assault on her throat.
'I did not expect—'

'Of
course. A business arrangement—that was what we agreed.' There was no mistaking
the sneer in his voice. 'And it will be. You have my wealth and my name. And as
long as you are discreet, I will not interfere with your...
amusements.
Neither will I impose myself on you
overmuch.' Her heart sank at this cold assessment of their future. 'But I need
an heir. And there must be no room for an annulment if your uncle decides to be
uncooperative and you wish to escape from the clutches of Cousin Charles.'

'Yes,
my lord. I know my duty.' Her reply was as cold as his, masking the misery in
her heart.

'That
sounds very cold comfort. I believe it is possible to derive some pleasure from
a wifely duty.' A faint smile accompanied the mockery in the lines around his
thinned lips. 'Am I so unpalatable to you as a husband?'

'No, my lord.'

He bent his head again to
claim her lips with his own, at the same time releasing her hair from its
ribbons in a perfumed cascade on to her shoulders. He wound his hand into the
silken length of it to hold her in submission as he increased the pressure on
her mouth. Against her will her lips opened tentatively under his. Shock swept
through her as, withdrawing a little, his tongue traced the outline of her lips
before invading again. He released her, but only so that his hands could deal
with the fastenings of her gown.

'It seems that I must be
servant as well as lover tonight,' he murmured against her throat.

He left a trail of
feathery kisses from her jaw along the curve of her throat to her shoulder as
his fingers expertly worked their way through the tiny buttons and laces.
Frances was only aware of the heat spreading throughout her body from her toes
to her hairline as the white sprigged muslin slipped into a pool at her feet.
Her breathing was shallow and she gasped as his hard mouth returned to possess
her lips once more. All she could hope for was that he would be understanding
of her ignorance and lack of experience.

Aldeborough was acutely
aware of her anxiety in the tension in every part of her body, in the rapid
beat of her pulse beneath his lips. 'Do you trust me?'

She stood rigidly in his
embrace.

'I don't know,' she
replied honestly, her eyes wide with apprehension.

His answering touch was
gentle, holding her captive, pressing her soft curves to the length of his
body. He moved his hands to caress the sides of her ribs through her fine
chemise and allowed his palms to brush the soft swell of her breasts. Then, as
she heard his own breathing change, he let his hands fall and stepped back—but
only to kneel at her feet with elegant grace to remove her garters. His fingers
stroked the satin skin of her thigh, calf, ankle, as he smoothed her stockings
dotvn to her delicately arched feet.

At
last he rose, pausing to snuff the branch of candles to allow her the anonymity
of darkness.

He
stood and looked at her in the flickering shadows cast by the one remaining
candle. Her eyes were dark and fathomless like bottomless pools. Her skin
ivory, flushed with rose, but icy, her whole body held in check as if her one
desire was to flee from his touch.

'I
am afraid,' she whispered.

'But
there is no need.'

He
stooped to lift her into his arms effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing, and
then laid her on the high bed. He was touched by compassion. He would do his
best for her, to make it an acceptable experience. He stayed only to divest
himself of his clothing before stretching his body beside her and began to kiss
her. Gently at first, them more urgently, her mouth, hair, face, then along her
throat to her shoulders, his lips burning on her cool skin. She had never
imagined that her cool self-possessed husband could generate such fire. She
shivered as he pushed aside her chemise and allowed his hands to drift down her
slender body, brushing her nipples and stroking her flat stomach. Frances felt
a response awaken deep within her when she become acutely aware of his arousal,
strong and hard against her thigh. He continued his exploration of her body,
discovering tantalising curves and hollows that fit so naturally against his
palms, teasing her nipples with his tongue until they became erect. She gasped
at the electric effect, the heat in her blood, and hid her face against his
shoulder, conscious of his own disciplined breathing as if holding his actions
on a tight rein.

Then
he changed his position so that he could part her thighs with his knee and
stroke the impossibly soft flesh. For a long moment she held her breath, her
whole body trembling at the touch of his fingers in such an intimate caress.
Her brain refused to allow her to respond to the incredible sensation of his
naked body pressed against hers, cool skin against cool skin. He lifted himself
above her, taking as much of his weight as he could on his elbows.

'Trust me,' he repeated
breathlessly. 'I will try to hurt you as little as I can. Now!'

With a firm thrust he
penetrated her. She cried out against the unexpected invasion that filled her,
stretched her, causing her to struggle for the first time against the
intrusion.

'Lie still,' he ordered,
but his voice was infinitely gentle. And he remained motionless himself except
to brush his lips over her hair and eyes and then finally her mouth, parting
her lips with his tongue as he had invaded her body. She allowed her taut
muscles to relax again and as soon as he sensed it he began to move within her.
Slowly at first. She tensed her muscles again momentarily against his total
possession of her body, but his smooth controlled movements did not lessen. His
thrusts became deeper and more urgent so that she clung to him, fingernails
buried in his shoulders as there seemed to be no other alternative. Then, as
desire finally overset his iron control, he shuddered into his climax, pinning
her to the bed with the weight of his body. Frances lay in emotional and
physical emptiness, sensation ebbing, leaving her devastated, drained of
coherent thought. Why had she found it impossible to respond with any
warmth—even the merest hint of pleasure? She knew in her heart that he had
taken her with care and compassionate tenderness—so why did she feel that she
had in some way failed him? And yet she had sensed something there for her in
his touch far beyond her reach.

Aldeborough slowly
withdrew to lie beside her, leaving one arm thrown possessively across her
body. He had found her most appealing, slim and firm with small high breasts.
Her skin was like water over silk. He smoothed his hand along the satin length
of her back to her waist and over the curve of her hip. He had found no
difficulty in becoming aroused and consummating their marriage. But in spite of
physical satisfaction he was disturbed by a ripple of unease. True, she had not
repulsed him, but he had been unable to break through her intense reserve. For
the most part she had remained rigid and unresponsive.

He had not expected this,
in spite of her ignorance. Aldeborough knew that she had a courageous, vital
spirit beneath her quiet demeanour, and except for that one occasion in the
library at the Priory, she had never flinched from him. Nor had she ever
attacked him with tears or recriminations. He had thought that she would take
some pleasure from their coupling, or at least accept it with equanimity. But
not this withdrawal, rejection even. He was surprised by an unexpected twinge
of failure for all his experience. He had not done his best for her. He could
have taken more time to awaken her emotions and senses, but he had believed
that it would merely have prolonged the agony of anticipation for her.

Aldeborough sighed and,
drawing away from her, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, hunting in the
dark to retrieve his discarded clothing. He was halted by the hesitant touch on
his arm. He turned back to her where she lay, lost in shadows except for the
gleam of the moonlight on her chemise.

'My lord...' her voice was
barely a whisper '...did I displease you? I am sorry if you found
me...unattractive. But I didn't know—'

'Frances.' It struck him
like a physical blow that she believed he had abandoned her in disgust. And
how hard it must have been for her to turn to him. 'You must never think that.
I simply thought that you might like some privacy. That you might wish to sleep
alone.'

'Of course. Forgive me.' The
words tumbled out in an agony of embarrassment. 'I did not mean to imply... I
did not intend to impose on you.' She turned away so that all he could see were
her rigid shoulders.

He sighed. He should have
been more careful with her. With all his experience he had frightened her and
there was now little he could do to remedy it. His conscience pricked him with
a full-blown blast of guilt, he rolled back on to the bed. 'Come here,' he said
gently.

'Please don't be angry
with me.'

Which was a strange thing for
her to say. 'Why should I?'

He pulled the chemise
modestly down around her ankles and rearranged the lace neckline so that it lay
becomingly around her shoulders. He pushed her hair away from her face, running
his fingers through the tangles until she cried out in protest. Her eyes were
closed, but he was relieved that there were no tears. He drew her gently into
his arms so that her head rested on his shoulder and tucked the sheet
comfortingly around them both—as if she was a child in need of reassurance.
She made no resistance.

'Are you comfortable?'

He felt the tiniest nod of
her head against his chest.

'You must never think that
you disgust me, Frances. Do you understand?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'You are allowed to call
me Hugh.' She could hear the smile in his voice, but she had suffered enough
intimacies for one night and simply turned her face into his shoulder.

Silence fell between them.

He felt no inclination to
break it.

'Go to sleep, Frances Rosalind,' he murmured.
Virgins were the very devil, he mused. Not that he had much knowledge of them.
Letitia Winter's practised embraces were far more predictable and never
disappointing. For a moment he enjoyed the image of Letitia's ample breasts and
shapely hips, and remembered the touch of her clever fingers as she roused him
to heights of mutual pleasure. And then he closed his mind to it. He stroked
his wife's hair until she relaxed against him and her breathing deepened. She
was warm and soft and pliable in his arms. He felt a surprising feeling of contentment
steal through his limbs. Eventually he followed her into sleep.

She awoke as the first
light of dawn crept into the room to find him gone. Her body felt sore as she
turned over in bed and sat up, her muscles complaining. The imprint of his body
and head were still clear beside her, but she had no memory of his leaving. Her
gown and petticoats had been neatly folded on to a chair with her stockings on
top and her shoes beneath, but his clothes were gone. She was not sorry.
Shyness overcame her as she remembered the demands of his body on her own. And
shame that she had been so frozen into unresponsive rigidity. But she also
remembered his kindness and the gentle tenderness that she had not expected.
She raised her hand to her mouth. She fancied that she could still taste his
kisses and sense the imprint of his lips on her throat as if they had left
actual marks on her fair skin. She swung her legs out of bed, hoping that she
might regain her composure with her clothing before she had to confront him again.