by Tamara Gill
“Let me assist you.” He pulled her up.
She would have to get used to the man’s strength. Maxwell had never carried her about the room, but then there had been many things that Maxwell had never done.
Arthur untied her shift, and the material hung inelegantly from her body. The loose fabric should not have looked appealing, but Arthur’s eyes still darkened, as if he were contemplating devouring her.
“Take it all off,” he said.
“But you’re still clothed.”
He grinned. “I think I can manage to rectify that.”
Arthur placed his cravat over the bedding and lifted his shirt over his shoulders. Bare skin soon gleamed under the candlelight.
He leaned downward, once again encompassing her lips with his. She wrapped her arms around his back tentatively, but when he moaned in seeming delight she grasped him more firmly.
The man settled between her legs, resting his torso against hers. She was aware of rippled muscles and long legs.
He moved his lips away from hers, and she was filled with an acute sense of loss. She blinked, wondering whether she should pull him back, and tightened her grip on his torso.
Perhaps it didn’t matter if the man thought her uncouth, perhaps the only thing that actually mattered was for Arthur to continue to kiss her.
In the next moment he pressed his lips against her neck. She was certain her throat was not supposed to be an interesting portion of her body, but Arthur’s lips there still sent a pleasurable sensation rippling through her.
He was claiming her with his tongue, as surely as if he’d taken a paint brush. But instead of oily paint or too thin watercolors, he was pressing the sweetest kisses against her. She felt ravished, and he moved his lips downward, pressing on the skin that bordered her stays. He pulled the already loosened stays down lower and pressed his lips over the edge of her bosom.
Fire swept through her, and he pulled her stays down. Her bosom lay bare, and she shivered under his reverent gaze. He moved his fingers over her bosom, seeming to find delight in coursing them over her flesh.
“So beautiful,” he murmured.
He pressed his lips over her breast and captured its center in his mouth. She arched her back as pleasure swept through her.
She’d been worried about consummating the marriage, of doing what her first husband had never been able to do, but the worry began to dissipate.
Arthur did not seem like a man about to abandon his marital bed. His hands still moved over her, as if he wanted to memorize every curve like some sculptor.
Pleasure cascaded through her. The slight frigid temperature of the night had been replaced by warmth.
I love him.
The thought settled in her mind, and she forced her lips shut. She couldn’t lay there, babbling all sorts of sentimentality.
Their marriage had been a bargain. She couldn’t break the very first rule of succumbing to sentimentality, now. She wanted to be the wife he wanted. She would be. She wasn’t going to break her vow to him a mere day after the ceremony, no matter how much happiness moved its way forcefully through her.
“Can I?” His voice was impossibly husky, and his eyes so wonderfully dark.
She knew what he meant.
He wanted to enter her. The act would consummate their marriage. All the kisses, all the compliments, they’d all been leading up to this moment. She’d heard of the importance for a woman to relax during the act, that the pain would be less strong if one did, and she was thankful for his ministrations.
She wouldn’t make the mistake to believe the words had been anything more than the tender declarations of a man eager to ease her pain.
“You better get it over with,” she said.
Hurt seemed to settled over his face, and she blinked. Did this evening also mean something to him? Hope grew for a moment, but his face soon hardened.
Naturally.
Likely she’d offended his masculine pride. She would have to be more careful, and added it to her list of things to master. She never wanted to cause him any pain. The man only deserved happiness.
She lay naked before him, splayed over soft sheets. Her hair lay tousled on the bed. Likely each lock was jutting in a different direction, and she moved her hand up to smooth them.
He caught her hand in his. “You look fine.”
*
For a moment he’d imagined her to enjoy the evening, but he was reminded again that she only saw it as a task, one only slightly different than standing before a vicar.
Never mind.
He was determined to bring her bliss. This was his chance. Perhaps his only one.
He wanted to grasp her in his arms, to marvel at her beautiful form. He wanted to enter her. Devour her.
She was his everything. She’d been his greatest desire for far too long.
He angled himself against her and pressed into utter bliss. She tensed briefly when he broke her barrier and clutched him more tightly.
He held her as she relaxed, stroking her hair until she was ready to continue.
Heavens, she was amazing.
He closed his eyes, imagining that Madeline was truly happy with him.
For now though he concentrated on the sounds of her moans. She met his thrusts, as if striving to meld herself with him just as much as he wanted to meld himself with her.
He gazed at her bosom, her tiny waist, and her long blonde hair. Her cheeks were rosy-colored, more so than he’d ever seen her, and even her lips seemed redder. A sheen of sweat lay on her brow, and she furrowed her perfect eyebrows in concentration as she continued to meet him.
“Let me take care of you,” he said.
Her eyes opened in surprise.” It was painful—oh, so painful to leave the warm blissfulness of Madeline, but he pulled himself from her. He wanted this to last. He kissed her skin, striving to memorize every inch of her with his tongue.
I don’t know when we’ll do this again.
He pushed away the stab of sadness. He was determined to enjoy himself. To have her enjoy herself.
He circled her bosom with his tongue, and she arched closer to him. He trailed his tongue down her stomach, and settled on the space between her legs.
Her scent wafted over him, and he inhaled.
He wanted her to enjoy this.
“I feel so tense,” she murmured.
“Good,” he said, moving his fingers and tongue more quickly over her entrance.
She seemed to shatter before him, curling her toes and moaning. Her long lashes flickered shut and he pulled her into his arms. He wanted to hold her forever.
Finally she turned her head.
She’s going to leave.
But she didn’t leave, instead she pulled his face closer to hers and tentatively, ever so tentatively, kissed him.
His heart sang.
Angels themselves could not be more joyous. She eased over him, once again encompassing him.
They rocked together, grasping hold of one another, and he continued to kiss her until the world seemed to explode and she smiled softly and pulled away.
Chapter Twenty-three
It wasn’t supposed to feel like that.
Not so utterly wonderful.
Perhaps she’d been a virgin before tonight, but Maxwell had attempted to bed her. She’d been aware of Maxwell’s compliments, that had sounded as rehearsed as any actor. He’d kissed her perfunctorily, inhaled, and then flung off his robe. The next few moments had been hasty, frantic, and he’d tackled her with the same vigor that she later saw him eat the black pudding her mother served him and the medicine his doctors gave him when they’d attempted to save his life.
That night Maxwell had arranged her in several positions. She’d thought he might succeed when he’d flipped her onto her stomach. She supposed approaching her from the back gave him privacy in an act that was in desperate need of privacy.
He’d murmured polite apologies, and though she was less innocent when he’d given
up, she had not been taken.
Maxwell had retreated to his room, murmuring something about letting her sleep and attempting again tomorrow.
Tomorrow though never came. He’d retreated to his London apartment, and when he finally returned after a fortnight, they’d not spoken of it.
Why would they want to attempt something so awkward? Fortunately at some point they’d discovered a friendship.
In hindsight she wasn’t sure if he’d wooed her at all, or if he’d only succumbed to his mother’s marriage-mindedness.
He wasn’t young when she met him. He was thirty-six, young enough not to require a wife, though perhaps old enough for people to start questioning why he’d never been engaged, and had maintained an impeccable reputation even at the balls and house parties where the alcohol flowed most.
She hadn’t wanted romance. She’d prided herself on not requiring it, being cooler and calmer than the other debutantes who seemed to be either a bundle of nerves (à la Fiona), or a bundle of giggles (à la most everybody else).
Maxwell’s cool collected demeanor, his willingness to converse with her mother, and even his discomfort around the handsome, athletic men with their laddish ways had reassured her.
She felt regret for how easily she’d adapted to the rules of their marriage. She hadn’t known to be unhappy with them. She’d thought herself fortunate only to have married, to have been able to have helped her family, and she threw herself into socializing and research.
The secret had burdened her. Her grandmother had hinted at how perfect her manor house would be for young children to run about in, and she’d discussed her favorite names, as if pondering what she’d name her unborn children.
Perhaps some of her friends assumed she couldn’t have children. They didn’t know she’d never even tried, would never ever be able to try to have them. She sighed. Since then she’d done her best to avoid disappointment.
*
The wedding night’s pleasures were not replicated. The next day they set sail for London. Any accomplishments Madeline may have possessed did not extend to having a sturdy stomach, and unfortunately the Mediterranean had decided to be uncharacteristically stormy.
Arthur thankfully retreated to his cabin for most of the journey, though he still visited her several times a day, as if he wanted to ascertain her condition himself instead of relying on the reporting of the quite capable maid.
Madeline didn’t like him seeing her when her hair was messy, and since she’d developed a sudden fondness for lying on her bed while attempting to imagine the world were not swaying in unpredictable directions, she rather doubted her appearance was to her usual standards.
“Next time we’ll go by carriage. I promise you,” Arthur declared one day.
“I wanted to avoid France,” she moaned as the hull dipped and swirled.
Arthur squeezed her hand. “Then we will travel through all the Germanic kingdoms and the Alps for our next visit.”
She must have appeared confused, for he added, “I won’t compromise your safety.
His dedication to her safety, while lovely, was not what had given her pause.
“We’ll go to Venice again?” she asked.
“Naturally. Can’t have you never seeing your best friend again.” He squeezed her hand, and for a moment she even thought he kissed her cheek. But then the door closed behind him, and she closed her eyes.
Sleep had never been a more delightful thing, but eventually the ship docked in Dover. Arthur and she hadn’t discussed their living arrangements, and Madeline half-expected him to arrange a carriage to Yorkshire for her while he visited his St. James Square apartment.
Instead he ordered a carriage to take them to London together.
“I’m not sure if you remember, but I closed my townhouse in London,” Madeline said, just in case he intended to leave her at his apartment.
“Oh?”
“The servants favor Yorkshire, and I wasn’t certain when I would be back—”
“You did tell me this before,” Arthur said, though he didn’t seem upset. “My memory is still intact.”
“Splendid,” she said.
“Your late husband managed to leave you quite well off.”
“Perhaps.” She drew her legs toward herself.
Money had always been a topic rife with awkwardness. When she debuted, she’d been armed solely with her appearance, which inspired the most praise from her parents, and the fact that her father hadn’t been completely exposed to be in deep debt.
Unfortunately she lacked a title, and since she’d only visited the capital once before, she also did not know anyone. She played the piano steadfastly, reaching each note in the correct order, though not with the mysterious emotion for which other people were praised. Her singing was even less tolerable, and the hostesses of dinner parties had quickly confined her singing to songs done in groups, preferably large ones.
The season had seemed like a competition, only one of far more importance than anything that young men of her age played on the village cricket field.
She did not lack money. Maxwell had given her as much as the law allowed him to, though unfortunately he had not thought to specifically leave the paintings to her. Her books, An Introduction to Art History and An Introduction to Italian Art, had sold well. England was filled with people who desired to appear knowledgeable when faced with a centuries old painting or sculpture. Readers seemed to enjoy imagining musings on paintings from a baron ensconced in his manor home in Yorkshire, writing the occasional words of wisdom for peons.
Maxwell had let her do with the funds as she wanted to, and after he’d died she’d published several books she’d claimed to have found after his death.
Arthur tilted his head toward her. “I suppose Lord Mulbourne may have named you the recipient of his royalties in his will.”
“Y-yes.” She moved her hand to her neck, smoothing her neckline.
Arthur frowned, and she dropped her hand hastily.
Perhaps she should tell him.
Perhaps they were married and shouldn’t have such secrets.
Perhaps—
“I met Lord Mulbourne before,” Arthur said.
“Oh?”
“He never struck me as having much of an interest in art.”
“Some people can develop such interests later in life,” Madeline said cautiously.
“And some people always had them,” Arthur said.
“I—I suppose that’s true.” Her heart beat nervously. She should tell him. But confessing her lie, her secret identity—she’d trained herself not to tell anyone. Even her cousins.
“You were one of those people who always held an interest in art,” Arthur continued.
“Me?” she squeaked.
“You’re very observant.”
“You saw my poor attempt at embroidery.”
He laughed. “Embroidery doesn’t interest you. Examining sculptures and paintings does though. I believe you were behind all of your husband’s work.”
Her shoulders tensed, but she found herself nodding.
“Does no one else know?”
She shook her head. Words would come later, but now she simply struggled with deciding whether or not she was relieved the secret was out.
“You let him take all that glory?”
She drew her legs back. He didn’t understand. Her musings would never have been published under her name. If women wrote anything to be published, it tended to be for other women. “It was my best chance at getting the work out…and it was successful.”
“You should be very proud,” he said gravely.
She smiled tightly.
“But Lord Mulbourne has been dead for several years now. Perhaps now you might reveal your identity.”
“And cause a scandal?” She shook her head. “I don’t do that.”
“You just steal jewels?” Humor was in his voice.
Madeline wasn’t certain when he’d shifted from rage at her theft t
o a rather more restrained reaction, but she was certain she appreciated it.
The coach swept through the Kent countryside. The wooden wheels rattled over stone bridges and glided more smoothly over the dirt lane. Thankfully it must not have rained recently, and the carriage arrived in London with all its wheels intact, an occurrence that seemed far too rare when traveling over the Yorkshire Dales. The sun shone brightly, and Madeline found herself blinking into the bright light that strewed in through the windows.
“Let me draw the curtain for you,” Arthur said.
“No—it’s nice.”
He smiled, and she moved her gaze from the understanding flicker in his eyes to the long stretches of flat fields. Snowy-white lambs gathered near their mothers, leaping and dashing over the verdant blades.
“There’s nowhere nicer than England,” Arthur murmured.
They arrived in London late, and he introduced her to his very surprised servants.
The apartment may have lacked the grandeur of a country manor where the bedrooms numbered in the double digits, but the sweeping marble floors and large windows proved delightful, even if Madeline smiled at the questionable shade of brown curtains. She settled down onto the bottle green couch that aligned imperfectly with the murky brown furniture.
Arthur seemed confident when he told her that Admiral Fitzroy had believed their marriage, but Madeline wondered if it was true.
She half-expected the admiral to call on them, armed with guards.
But no one else was there.
Only Arthur.
The man seemed pleased to be back. “Do you like London?”
“I adore it.” She smiled. “Though the country has its appeals, naturally.”
“The problem with moving to London,” Arthur declared, “is that my apartment is too small for a wife.”
Oh.
He’s already regretting it.
Madeline leaned back against the seat. The sofa’s velvet upholstery could not soften the blow of his words, despite their expectancy.
“I can return to Yorkshire,” she said.
His gaze seemed to intensify, and she hastened to add, “I can take the mail coach there.”
“You want to do that?” There was a note of skepticism in his voice that made her naturally bristle.