She stepped closer, splayed her palms, warm and soft, on his chest, and stroked, explored. Caressed.
He gritted his teeth and let her have the moment. When he was sure he could move without losing control, he raised his hands to her shoulders and peeled the bodice of her gown down. It was her turn to lower her hands and slip her arms free of her sleeves. The instant she had, he stepped into her, one hand at the back of her waist urging her against him, eliminating the gap between their bodies as he bent his head and found her lips and kissed her—this time, he let desire rise and slip free, let hunger raise its head and enter the fray, let passion begin the slow, inexorable build that could find surcease in only one way.
Stacie was beyond giddy—she’d lost touch with the world and didn’t care. She needed this—all he could show her of passion and desire and this addictive heat.
The taut skin of his chest, stretched over firm flesh and bone, the tempting sweep of muscles banding the expanse, and the crinkly dark hair adorning it were all elements within her greater fascination with his body and the passion she sensed—had always sensed—thrumming never far beneath his skin.
It was passion that made him such a consummate musician, that allowed him to imbue his playing with an unparalleled touch, with an almost ruthless evocation of emotion. As she’d hoped and suspected he would, he was bringing that same skill to this endeavor; his concentration was absolute, his attention focused, and his determination, clear in his kiss, in the power inherent in his touch as he divested her of her clothes, testified to his intent to wring every last drop of evocative emotion from this engagement, too.
Her skirts susurrated as they slid to the floor; her petticoats followed, and then she was locked in his embrace, with only the fine silk of her chemise between his heated skin and her swollen breasts.
She didn’t need to exercise any degree of will; all she had to do was follow his lead and wallow in the glory.
Their kiss heated even more, escalating into a conflagration that reduced any lingering missish reservations to ash.
Passion rose, and hunger became a tangible entity.
Her lips melded with his, her desire equal to and aligned with his. She slid her hands upward, twined her arms about his neck, and pressed into him, against him, the softness of her stomach cushioning the hard ridge of his erection, and kissed him back in blatant, flagrant invitation.
More, she said with that kiss. I want more.
Frederick couldn’t mistake her meaning; she pressed it on him with lips that burned and an unrestrained ardor that set his own alight.
She might have been innocent in the technical sense, yet age and knowledge had honed her expectations, and as ever, those expectations mirrored his.
It was another challenge—to deliver to those expectations while maintaining some degree of control.
He picked up the gauntlet she’d flung, angled his head, took control of the kiss, and with one arm around her waist, held her hips flush against him while he closed his other hand about her breast. The silk of her chemise shifted under his fingers, a tantalizing sensory addition he used to advantage, to heighten the sensations of his caresses. He closed his hand and gently kneaded, and she moaned softly into the kiss. His fingertips found, trapped, and plucked at her furled nipple, until she shifted restlessly in his arms.
Ruthlessly, he played on her senses, until she broke from the kiss, tipped her head back, and breasts heaving, hauled in a shuddering breath.
He didn’t give her time to find her mental feet; he’d already undone the tiny buttons that ran down the front of the chemise and seized the moment of her disorientation to ease the garment off her shoulders. It slithered down to her waist, then slowly slid lower.
She raised her head, eyes widening as cool air washed over her heated flesh. She would have instinctively grabbed the chemise and held it to her, but he raised his hands, framed her face, and kissed her.
And waltzed them both into desire’s flames.
Stacie couldn’t think. At all. Sensation consumed her as his tongue tangled with hers and his hands slid from her face only to fasten about her waist and pull her flush against him.
Her nerves leapt and sparked at the contact—at the feel of his hard chest pressing against her breasts, the raspy hair laced across his hard muscles subtly abrading her almost-painfully tight nipples.
His hands—his lean, strong pianist’s hands—explored, caressed, stroked, claimed, and with a touch of arrogance that was all him, possessed. Her breasts, the globes of her bottom, the curves of her upper thighs—he made them all his. He relentlessly stoked fires beneath her skin, until she was burning.
And all she wanted was more—yet more. A wild, wanton, passionate side of her had been buried by her refusal to marry—her effective denial of this—but now the gates had been opened, and in his arms, that passionate side sought the light.
Sought satisfaction.
Marriage had set her free. Free to embrace even this side of her—so long denied, so hungry.
So ravenous.
She sent her hands skating over his hot skin, gripping, tensing her fingers into the muscle bands, exploring and delighting when muscles rippled under her trailing fingertips.
He was still half clothed, which seemed unfair. Emboldened, she experimented. Eventually, she pressed into him and sinuously shifted, caressing his chest with her breasts, and sensed her moment—a fractional hiatus when she finally succeeded in fracturing his focus and turning it inward—and reached for his waistband and the buttons closing the flap of his trousers.
In seconds, she had the buttons undone, but he realized, caught her hands, pulled back from the kiss, hesitated for a second—she thought he swore softly, but couldn’t be sure through the haze clouding her senses—then he released her, swooped, swept her up into his arms, and carried her to the bed.
At last was her only thought as he juggled her, tossed back the coverlet, then laid her on the silken sheets. She’d linked her arms around his neck and drew him down with her, and he came readily, stretching out alongside her.
She boldly tugged, wanting him to cover her, only to discover he had other ideas. That he wanted to explore every inch of her body as if she were the rarest of pianos and he had to note and then worship every single key, every taut wire.
He made her arch. He made her gasp and moan and, ultimately, writhe.
She’d thought she’d reached the wanting stage already, but he made her ache with heightened need.
Then his clever fingers delved between her thighs, breaching and penetrating, and her body convulsed as it never had before in an eruption of pleasure so intense, stars danced before her eyes.
He reduced her to panting limpness, then seized the moment to slip from her side and dispense with his trousers and stockings.
Then, finally gloriously nude—a sight that made her breathing suspend and her eyes feel like saucers—he returned to her.
To her arms as she welcomed him to her, her muscles functioning once again as the effect of her passionate release faded, to her lips as he claimed them anew, to her body as he came down atop her, spread her thighs with his, and settled heavily between.
Glorious! Her senses sang as they absorbed the full impact of his weight, his naked form, pressing her into the bed. Her awareness fractured as she tried to take in every tiny nuance of the moment.
Then he reached down and touched her, traced his long fingers through the slick folds of her entrance, and heat flooded her again. Passion laid its hand on her anew, and she welcomed its heady flame.
He continued to kiss her as he shifted his hips, and the broad head of his erection nudged between her folds, then eased deeper into her body.
Novel sensations swamped her, the thickness of him stretching her channel. The intrusion of his body into hers was startling and, more than anything else, embodied the term intimacy.
He paused, every muscle in his lean frame tensed to the point of quivering—and she thought he was wai
ting for some sign from her. She tightened her arms about him, tipped her head back to better return his kiss, and raised her legs, wrapped them about his hips, and drew him to her.
She sensed his breath hitch, then he flexed his spine and, with one powerful thrust, drove all the way home.
Filling her and nudging her core.
She yelped, but before the sound had fully dissipated, the pinching pain had eased.
He raised his head and, breathing harshly, looked into her face. “Are you all right?”
She could only just make out the gravelly words. In answer, she smiled beatifically.
He grunted, and she realized the tremors rippling through his taut muscles were proof of how much effort he was expending to give her those moments.
She stretched up and pressed her lips to his, tightened her arms and her legs about him, and urged him on.
He eased out a breath, then drew fractionally back before thrusting home again. Soon, she was rising to his increasingly forceful tempo, then the crescendo caught them, and the world dissolved into a vortex of want, need, passion, and desire, and nothing else mattered but reaching the pinnacle of sensation that steadily rose on their horizon.
Frederick gritted his teeth and clung to control, wanting to—needing to—ensure he didn’t reach that rapturous peak before she did. She was new to this, and in some ways, so was he.
He’d always prided himself on being a generous lover, but with all other women, the driving force behind his generosity had largely been academic; he’d behaved so because he’d felt he should. But with her, there was nothing academic about his need to worship her, to accord each and every curve the reverence it was due; the uncontestable reason behind his drive to ensure her pleasure was simply because her pleasure was his.
Braced above her, he looked down at her face, felt the lush curves of her body cradling and caressing his as she shifted beneath him, as she undulated and writhed to the rhythm of his thrusts.
Her skin was so fine, skimming his fingertips over it felt like stroking the most delicately polished porcelain. The sight of desire’s rosy tint spread beneath the alabaster white sent possessive satisfaction coursing through him, pushing him on, tempting him to increase his pace and take her more aggressively—something he fought against.
In the end, his instincts took over. He was an experienced composer; he knew what notes to hit and how to string movements into a symphony that swept them both along.
She gasped and seemed to recognize his intent, and she surrendered herself with unfettered abandon, letting him play her like his own sensual instrument, and as with his musical performances, he lost himself in the music they made.
He lost himself wholly in her.
The end, when it came—when the crescendo of their passions exploded in a starburst of pleasure, and their striving tensions snapped, and glory streaked like lightning down their veins—was as much of a revelation to him as it was to her.
For an indefinable instant, they hung suspended, buoyed high on a surge of exquisite, ethereal emotion.
Then oblivion rolled over them, caught them, snared them, and inexorably swept them into its bliss-filled sea.
Later, he stirred and lifted from her.
She remained sunk in slumber. He eased down beside her and drew up the covers, then propped on his elbow and gave in to the impulse to stare.
To catalog every feature, for once devoid of her customary vibrancy, her expression blank in the aftermath of passion.
To him, in that moment, she appeared delicate, vulnerable, and infinitely precious. A lady he would, forevermore, protect against all comers—whether her foe be some person intent on harming her or an idea planted long ago in her head.
He couldn’t, and he sensed he would never be able to, back away from that duty. Indeed, in his mind, it didn’t register as a duty but rather as a right.
Something he had claimed that night, along with making her his wife.
After long moments of studying her and sorting through the web of feelings she inspired in him, he carefully lay down, raised his arm, reached around her, and gently eased her nearer. She wriggled and snuggled closer, then sighed and sank deeper into sleep.
He relaxed and closed his eyes, only to have his brain decide to examine the new landscape in which he found himself. He hadn’t expected the changes; he hadn’t known that making love to a woman whom he loved would be a significantly different experience—one that touched and influenced him in very different ways—from making love to a lady for whom he felt nothing more than sexual interest.
Out of that—because of that difference—so much about the engagement had been heightened; it had felt as if every thud of his heartbeat had been more powerful, deeper, more intense.
As for the final moments…they had been the ultimate in rapture.
Luckily, having been a virgin, she had no prior experience with which to compare. She wouldn’t see—had no cause to even guess—that what they’d shared had been in any way extraordinary.
He told himself all was well and allowed his lips to curve into an arrogantly smug smile.
Out of today, he’d got all that he wanted—her in his bed with his ring on her finger—and most importantly, his secret remained safe, known only to him and no one else.
Chapter 14
When Stacie woke to her first day of married life, it was to find herself alone in her husband’s big bed. The bed curtains had been drawn to protect her from the sight of anyone entering the room, but had been left open on the side facing the wide windows, and weak sunshine streamed in, informing her that it was well and truly morning.
She stretched languorously, feeling delicious aches in places she’d never felt achy before, then, prodded by hunger and curiosity, she slipped from the bed and found and donned her chemise. Having detected no sound or other signs of life, she explored and discovered that the narrow door in the inner wall closer to the fireplace led to a large, obviously male dressing room—thankfully empty, although there were signs that Frederick at least, if not his valet, whom she’d yet to meet, had been there at some point. The corresponding door on the other side of the room led into a large bathing chamber. She was delighted to see a huge claw-footed tub, along with the usual washbasin and commode. A second door to the bathing room, opposite the one through which she’d entered, led to what had to be the marchioness’s dressing room; Stacie found her clothes hanging in the two armoires and in neat piles in the drawers of the chests, and her brushes and combs had been placed on the dressing table, along with her jewelry chest—and a red-velvet-covered jewel case she didn’t recognize.
The dressing table sat before the window; she padded to it and stared at the unknown case. Her first thought had been that it was a part of the Brampton family jewels, but the case looked new.
And now she was closer, she could see that “Aspreys” was stamped in gold lettering across the top of the case.
“Oh,” she breathed. “He didn’t.”
She picked up the case and, holding her breath, opened it—and found herself staring at the ruby parure she’d so admired. The stones glinted and gleamed. Her first impulse was to don the entire set, but that would be too much for a day about the house. Looking around, she hesitated, then saw the bellpull and crossed to it and tugged.
When Kitty arrived, bearing a pitcher of warm water, Stacie insisted on dressing in one of her ruby-red gowns.
After sitting on the dressing stool to allow Kitty to arrange her hair, she opened the new jewel case and picked up the bracelet.
Kitty’s eyes flew wide. “Ooh, my lady! They’re so beautiful.” She lowered her voice. “Are they from the master?”
Stacie smiled. “Yes. Sadly, I can’t wear the whole set during the day—the bracelet and ring will have to suffice.” So Frederick would know she treasured his wedding gift.
After directing Kitty to retrieve the rest of her clothes from the marquess’s bedchamber, Stacie walked into the marchioness’s bedroom.
Although the room had clearly been prepared for occupation, as Frederick had intimated, the furniture and fabrics were from decades past.
She looked around, then, having decided that before redecorating, she should wait to ask Frederick’s mother, now the dowager marchioness, if she wished to claim any of the pieces or hangings for her rooms, either those she would keep here or those at Albury House, Stacie quit the room in search of her husband.
She found him in the breakfast parlor, having been directed to the pleasant room that looked onto the garden by Kitty, who had put her early-morning hours to good use learning the layout of the house and the ways of the household. Apparently, for those who preferred to dine downstairs, breakfast was available from the sideboard in the breakfast parlor between the hours of seven and nine.
It was a quarter to the latter hour when she walked into the well-lit room and found Frederick perusing a news sheet. On seeing her, he lowered the sheet and, his lips curving, nodded. “Good morning, my dear.”
Smiling, she inclined her head. “My lord.” That seemed appropriate in multiple ways.
She went to the sideboard and allowed Hughes to hand her a plate and lift the lids of the silver serving platters. Once she’d made her selections, she turned to the round table. Frederick rose, waved back the footman, and drew out the chair beside his.
Pleased, she sat, her bracelet helpfully tapping against the edge of her plate, then as Frederick—who had noticed the sound and its source—leaned over her, easing in her chair, she looked into his face. “Thank you for your very thoughtful gift, my lord. It’s beautiful—I’ll treasure it forever.”
He remained hovering over her as his eyes searched hers; he was transparently gratified that her thanks were obviously genuine. “It was, indeed, my pleasure.” His gaze shifted to her hand where the ruby ring glowed. “The stones and design suit you—the set was made for you.”
He started to straighten, and suddenly struck, she caught his eye. “I just realized—I haven’t given you anything.”
The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3 Page 27