by Anne Gracie
She had never imagined it could be so with a man.
He nibbled her behind the ear. She shuddered and arched against him and felt him smile against her skin.
“Come, let us move to the bedchamber.” He took her hands and she stood and took a couple of wobbly steps; her legs felt strange, as though her knees were about to dissolve.
With a swift movement he swung her into his arms. She gasped and wrapped her arms around his neck as he carried her into the bedchamber—carried her. She hadn’t been carried since she was a child, but there was nothing childlike in this. She felt entirely womanly, desired and desirous.
He laid her down on the bed like some precious gift, then stepped back and, keeping his burning-ice gaze on her, he quickly stripped off his waistcoat and neck cloth. He bent and pulled off his boots and she admired the lean, elegant line of his thighs and the firm masculine buttocks in the tight buff breeches.
He turned and caught her looking, and she blushed furiously, but could not help but smile at the same time.
It felt deliciously wanton to be lying on a man’s bed, admiring his person so blatantly, knowing she had every right to look as much as she wanted. He loved her. Loved her. All the lonely years . . . and now . . . this glorious, wonderful, magnificent man. Her man.
She watched as he unfastened the fall of his breeches and pushed them down his legs. He was still wearing his shirt, so all she could see was long, bare, well-muscled legs. Her face was so hot, it was just as well.
“Now you,” he said, and, feeling tongue-tied and self-conscious, she sat up and moved to unfasten her dress but he knelt before her and slipped off her shoes, one by one. Then his hands slid up her calves, seeking the ties of her garters. He undid them by feel alone, his hands hidden, moving under her skirts, an oddly erotic sight. His long, strong fingers were deft and quick as he dealt with the ties, then slowly rolled off her stockings one by one, brushing down her bare legs, stroking her, gently caressing her feet with his big, warm hands. With every movement, tiny shivers of pleasure arrowed to the core of her. She was melting under his touch.
She watched, mesmerized, as he laid the stockings neatly on the chair, side by side.
He straightened. “Do you need a hand with that?” His voice was deep and a little husky, and she realized she hadn’t done a thing to remove her dress, she’d been so taken up with the way he’d removed her stockings.
Hurriedly, breathing in quick, small gasps, she plucked at the fastenings of her dress.
“Let me,” he said, and in a few movements her dress started to fall away from her shoulders. “I like this dress,” he told her as he seized the hem and pulled it up. “Lift your bottom.” It was almost prosaic, except that her dress was whisked over her head and was gone. He shook it out and draped it carefully over the chair. While his back was turned she hurriedly undid her stays.
And then there was just him in his shirt and Abby in her chemise. Should she take that off too? She was suddenly frozen with anxiety. She wasn’t very . . . womanly. What if he found her disappointing? She folded her arms across her breasts, trying to disguise her lack.
“You are beautiful,” he said softly, and bent to take her mouth with his, and she forgot everything else, all her small, pointless worries burned to ash under the onslaught of his mouth against her senses.
She couldn’t think, only react, only feel. She tasted desire, and hunger and a bone-deep loneliness in him that some long-buried part of her recognized instinctively. She wrapped her arms around him, returning each kiss, each caress. She buried her fingers in his thick, closely cropped dark hair, and briefly wished he were still her wild, long-maned Viking.
Through her chemise he caressed her breasts, her belly, her limbs. Everywhere he touched, the abrasion of hands over fabric left her melting and quivering with pleasure.
And all the time he gazed at her, making love to her with his eyes, his smoke-hot, mist-dark eyes. How had she ever thought him cold?
He pulled off his shirt and a moment later her chemise went the same way, without apology, without regret. She hardly noticed she was naked and exposed; she was eating him up with her eyes. So beautiful, so strong.
And when he worshiped her breasts with lips and tongue and hands and the masculine abrasion of his jaw, she almost burst with the pleasure of it. Lacking? She felt powerful, helpless, beautiful. Triumphant.
She pressed herself hard against him, her limbs twining around him like a vine. The sensation of body against body, skin to skin, was exhilarating. His strength, his power, the fierce intensity of his desire ignited her. She felt lit from within.
She gloried in the hard, strong planes of his chest, running her palms over his skin, exploring the tiny male nubbins with delicate fingers, caressing, possessing and learning how it pleased him. So much pleased him.
He arched and writhed beneath her touch, growling his pleasure, telling her she was his love, his beauty, his soul. And all the time he was kissing her as if he would never, could never stop. He kissed her as she were the water of life itself, and he dying of thirst. And she blossomed beneath his touch.
He nudged her legs apart and caressed her there, his long, strong fingers insistent, knowing, skillful. She writhed restlessly beneath his ministrations, shivering with pleasure, aching and desperate for something, but not knowing what.
She was melting; she was strung as tight as a violin wire; she was shaking with need.
She looked at him, at his hard masculine part that jutted out so forcefully. It was strange; it was magnificent. She reached for it to give him the same pleasure he’d given her. And the same frustration.
“No,” he said, catching her hand before she could touch him. “Not this time, my love. I’ll explode if you touch me.”
“You too?” she wailed.
He smiled, though he was gritting his teeth as if in pain. “Not much longer.”
He moved, pressing her down into the bed with his body. The weight of him crushed her, but, “Yes, yes,” she muttered. This was it, what she wanted, some part of her recognized. She wrapped her legs around his waist, wanting to pull him closer, hold him tighter. She felt the hard heat of him nudging at her entrance and gasped as it pushed against her.
“It’s not going to fit,” she panted.
“It is.” He didn’t move.
She stiffened, wanting suddenly to shove him off her. She pushed at his chest, but in the same instant he entered her in a long, slow thrust that left her rigid with discomfort. The burst-sausage image came to mind again.
“I told you it wouldn’t fit!” But even as she spoke the words, she felt her body softening around him, adjusting to fit him, and suddenly she wasn’t quite so uncomfortable. It felt strange, and there was a slight stinging, but that was all.
He started to move and she stiffened in preparation for more discomfort, but no . . . It was all right. He was moving more rhythmically now, and she was almost . . . feeling . . . something. . . . She strained for . . . whatever it was, and then his fingers slipped between them and sensation arced through her like a flame, like a meteor.
She shrieked, arching and bucking beneath him, and he thrust and thrust, and she was moving with him and oh, it was glorious, and suddenly she was teetering on the edge of unbearable ecstasy, and it built and built until, with a loud groan, he gave one final thrust and shuddered deeply as she shattered gloriously around him.
When Abby woke, she was tucked into bed, curled against something big and warm and hard. She stretched luxuriantly, enjoying the sensation of skin against skin.
She didn’t feel at all like a burst sausage; she felt like a flower that had split open its plain, hard gray case and opened tender new brilliantly colorful petals to the sun. She felt safe; she felt warm; she was loved.
“Abby?” A deep, anxious male voice rumbled in her ear. “Are you all right?”
She opened her eyes and found herself confronting a worried smoke-gray gaze. A most beloved gaze.
Sh
e smiled, feeling full of joy, yet at the same time close to tears. She blinked them back, knowing he wouldn’t understand happy tears. “That was . . . I had no idea . . .”
“You’re all right?”
She snuggled against him, laying her cheek against his bare chest and wrapping her arms around him. “Just wonderful.” She sighed happily.
His arm circled her and he kissed her lightly. “It will be better the next time, I promise.”
She smiled against his skin. “I don’t see how it could be, but I’m happy to let you convince me.”
He gave a quiet huff of amusement and she felt him relax. He stroked one arm lazily, his long, clever fingers evoking delicious trails of remembered sensation. She hadn’t expected what passed between a man and a woman to be so. . . emotional, and at the same time, so very . . . animal. And yet so right.
She lay curled against him, in a half-awake, dreamy state, listening to him breathe, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat under her cheek.
It was so intimate, lying here in this quiet room, skin to skin with the man she loved.
Outside it started to rain, cold pellets beating against the windowpanes. A leaden gray light filled the room. It was early afternoon, but it felt like nightfall. The room filled with shadows and Abby wondered whether they should dress and return to her sisters. She didn’t want to go anywhere.
“I’ll get us some light.” With a surge of blankets he rose from the bed and, naked, padded to the fireplace where a fire had been laid. He took down the tinderbox and set about making a flame. He seemed entirely unself-conscious.
Abby had never seen a fully naked man before. At first she felt as though she should avert her gaze, but then. . . he was to be her husband. And he was already her lover. It was silly to be shy. She watched him, admiring the ripple of corded muscle across his back, the line of his spine, his taut buttocks, his long, hard thighs. Male to her female. Her Viking.
He set tinder to the fire and soon bright flames danced in the grate. With a long sliver of burning kindling he lit half a dozen candles. She stared, unable to look away when he turned and she saw the full masculinity of him, the part that had been inside her. Sensation rippled through her body at the sight of him.
Such a magnificent man. Emotion filled her throat. What had she done to deserve him?
Seeing her watching him, he smiled, and the smile told her he understood she was still a little shy, and that he liked it, and more than liked her. It warmed her to her toes.
He loved her.
He crossed the room and drew the curtains against the cold light outside. Rain beat on the cold glass panes; inside it was warm and bright and cozy as Max slipped back into bed.
“You don’t want to leave yet, do you?” he murmured and when she shook her head, he took her in his arms once more.
And if the first time they made love was a hungry claiming of frantic, aching flesh, this second time was slower, deeper . . . surer.
It was a vow.
Afterward they lay twined together in the warm light, talking in murmurs to the sound of crackling fire and rain outside. He told her of the mess his uncle had left him, of his first trip to sea and the desperate misery of seasickness.
In turn she told him about her parents and the places they’d lived, and how they died.
And of Laurence. He’d held her tightly then and later told her of the woman he’d had a long-term liaison with, a Chinese widow who had no desire to marry again.
Later the talk turned to their plans for the future. He told her about Davenham Hall, his property in the country, and how he’d managed to keep it—just—out of all the properties his uncle had owned. It would need a lot of work to rebuild the estate, and he had no idea what condition the house was in.
“Would you mind living in the country for a good part of the year?” he asked her. “I know a lot of people don’t like—”
“Mind? The opportunity to create my very own home? Don’t you know how precious that would be for me?” Her eyes filled with tears. She tried to blink them away. “I’ve never had a home of my own before.”
His embrace tightened. “I haven’t either,” he said, his voice husky. “Not really.”
Abby thought of the small boy who’d waited and waited to be collected from school, and never was, the boy who, when he’d finally been invited to his uncle’s house, had found it cold and formal, despite the warmth of his aunt. He might own the house in Berkeley Square, but he’d bought it for his aunt, and it was furnished with her things.
“We’ll create a home together,” she promised him. “For us and for our children.”
Epilogue
“I must learn to be content with being
happier than I deserve.”
—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
“In the country?” Lady Beatrice declared. “You can’t possibly mean to get married in some poky little church in the country when you can marry in St. George’s, Hanover Square. It’s the place to be wed.”
Abby smiled. “The chapel at Davenham Hall is perfect. We don’t want a big wedding, and it seems so right to be getting married there, beginning our new life in the place where we’ll live it.” Abby had fallen in love with Davenham Hall at first sight. Their carriage had crested the hill and they’d stopped to look down at the ancient stone house nestled in a green valley. The house was surrounded by a tangled garden and half hidden by trees, which at this time of year were starting to show signs of scarlet and gold and copper and green.
Abby had explored the rambling old house eagerly. It was dusty, but perfect, almost like something out of a fairy tale, with turrets and gothic windows and a fireplace in the hall large enough to roast an ox. And the tiny sixteenth-century chapel was exquisite—perfect for the wedding of two people who didn’t have a large family. Yet.
Lady Beatrice turned to Max. “Max, this is your doing!”
He shook his head. “It’s not, you know. If I had my way I’d marry her out of hand with a special license.”
His aunt made a disgusted noise. “You’d let the gel get married in rags, I suppose. Men!”
Max grinned and slipped his arm around Abby’s waist. “I’d marry her in nothing at all.”
Abby leaned her head on his shoulder. The waiting was hard on both of them. She longed to have the freedom to lie with him in his big bed, making love the way they had that glorious wet afternoon in Bath, but it wasn’t possible. Not here, where it seemed there were curious sisters, beady-eyed aunts and butlers underfoot at every turn.
Abby didn’t really mind what she wore to her wedding, but Daisy had set her heart on making her a special dress and Abby wasn’t going to disappoint her, especially since Max had given them the freedom of his silk warehouse. It would be the first dress Daisy had ever sewed using all new fabric.
“This is Abby’s notion,” Max said.
“It’s what I want, truly,” Abby assured the old lady. “It’s beautiful, just wait until you get there. The autumn colors are just starting and by the wedding, they’ll be stunning. And when we’ve finished with the house, it will look beautiful too. It just needs a good cleaning and some rearrangement.”
“Abby and I are going to travel ahead to Davenham Hall,” Max told his aunt. They’d planned it the night before. “We’ll get the house and chapel ready, and the wedding preparations under way.”
“We’d like to take Featherby and William with us,” Abby said quickly, before Lady Beatrice had a chance to object. “And a maid.”
“For a chaperone,” Max said.
Lady Beatrice raised her brows. “Not a sister?”
Abby shook her head, hoping her blush wasn’t too visible. “No, Jane and Damaris want to stay here and help Daisy.” That was true enough, but it was also true that she didn’t want her sisters underfoot, observing Abby behaving scandalously with her betrothed. She had every intention of repeating her Bath experience at Davenham Hall.
“Taking my butler too, I see.” La
dy Beatrice sniffed. “Barefaced piracy.”
“It’s just that he’s so good at organizing people,” Abby coaxed. “He’ll return after the wedding, I promise. I can’t imagine Featherby taking to country life permanently, can you?”
“Well, if you must, you must—oh, get along with you, Miss Burglar,” she pretended to grumble as Abby hugged her and planted a kiss on her cheek. “I suppose when love is bursting out of you, you have to kiss someone.”
“It is,” Abby agreed softly, and glanced at Max. “And I do.”
* * *
Abby and Max’s wedding day dawned mild and sunny. Jane and Daisy and Damaris helped Abby to get ready. Her wedding dress was in heavy cream silk, and so simply and beautifully cut it took Abby’s breath away when she saw it. Gathered from a square neckline, it was caught under the bust by a wide satin bow, the only piece of decoration in the whole dress unless you counted the tiny puffed sleeves. When she walked, the sumptuous fabric flowed around her like water.
“Oh, Daisy, it’s beautiful. I feel like a princess.”
Daisy grinned and nodded. “You know, Abby, I was that nervous when I went to cut the material—real silk it is, and never been touched—me hands were shaking. Still, it’s turned out all right, ain’t it?”
“It’s utterly beautiful and you know it,” Abby told her. “I should have chosen St. George’s, Hanover Square after all, so the ton could see this dress. Once they see it, they’ll be lining up for you to make them dresses, wait and see.”
Daisy grinned. “Don’t you worry about me, Abby. You just go off and get yourself married to that man of yours. Everything ready?”
Abby checked. She wore the beautiful square-cut emerald ring that Max had given her, that Lady Beatrice had inherited from her own mother. She touched the pearl and diamond necklace she wore around her neck, a gift from Max. Tucked beneath her satin waistband was a small lace handkerchief given to her by Lady Beddington, “Because one always cries at weddings, even one’s own.” A saucy pair of blue satin garters held up her silk stockings, a gift from Featherby and William, and on the table beside her sat the posy she would carry, fashioned by Damaris’s clever fingers.