by Anne O'Brien
‘I have some knowledge of the marriage customs of the Bedouin.’
‘Interesting. But perhaps not helpful.’ The skirt sank into velvet waves around her feet to leave the lady clad in a fine linen chemise. Nicholas sighed at the fragile beauty so revealed and bent his head to press little kisses along the satin of her exposed shoulder.
‘In Constantinople—’
‘Thea. Be quiet!’ With a smile he took her by the hand to encourage her to step from the folds, then bent to kneel before her and remove her soft boots.
‘I am nervous.’ Her teeth sank into her lip at the admission. ‘And most woefully ignorant.’
‘I, fortunately, am neither of those things. Despite my lack of knowledge of the Bedouin.’ Now he stood before her again, laughter in his face, but also an exquisite tenderness. ‘Is there anything other that you think I should know?’
Laughter gurgled in Thea’s throat. Then stopped as she drew in her breath, for there was no mistaking the blazing passion, the rampant need in his brilliant eyes.
‘I am very willing to learn,’ she managed to whisper.
‘Thank God!’
Nicholas pulled her down to the straw. Sat beside her to remove his boots. The sun had finally sunk below Burford Edge, allowing the deeper shadows of encroaching night to envelop them and grant them some privacy. There was no moonlight to illuminate or embarrass an inexperienced lady with intrusive shimmer.
So Lord Nicholas began his seduction of the lady who had invaded his waking and dreaming hours. Soft kisses to encourage and soothe, discovering the most delicate, most enticing curves of her face. And then her lips, softer yet, which parted beneath his urgings, inviting his tongue to take such liberties as made the lady’s breath catch and quicken. His breathing deepened as he determined to slow the tender development, one caress leading to another, each touch more intoxicating than the last. His tongue traced its path down the long sweep of her throat, tasting, savouring, until he reached the feverish beat of the pulse in that most sensitive of hollows. There he paused with open-mouthed kisses, before pushing the chemise from her shoulders so that he might know the satin slide of shoulders and breast.
Theodora allowed every intimacy, astonished at the sensitivity of her skin to his caresses, even the whisper of his warm breath, as delicious shivers rippled across her skin. Daringly she pushed her hands beneath the heavy linen of his shirt to trace the play of muscle and sinew, flesh on flesh. How smooth and well defined, how fine and utterly masculine.
Thea held her breath.
‘My love. My dear one.’ The merest whisper against the curve. ‘It is permitted for you to breathe.’ He felt her laugh softly—or perhaps it was a sob—as he pressed his lips to the shallow valley where her heart beat in hectic rhythm with his own.
Gradually, imperceptibly, he sensed her softening against him as she came to know and accept his touch. Only then did he allow his hands to move where they would, to follow the path of his tongue and mouth, and then on, a gentle moulding to smooth and slide. Swell of breast, dip of waist, curve of hip and thigh.
And under that tender assault, Thea held on. Until, as her nails dug deep into his shoulders, she felt him flinch on a sharp intake of breath.
‘Did I hurt you?’ A soft concern.
‘No. Or no more than the Maidens.’ Nicholas continued to press a line of feathery kisses along one fine-boned shoulder. ‘You are allowed to draw blood in such circumstances as this. But only a very little.’
‘I think I am afraid.’
‘The courageous Theodora admitting to fear?’ He raised his head to see her watching him, eyes a little wide.
‘Yes. Have mercy.’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’ Now he drew his hand over her breast, brushing her nipple with the pad of his thumb, gently, sensuously, until it hardened and she drew in her breath on a little cry. But rather than resist she wound her arms around his neck, an invitation, which he answered by reaching to smooth one hand slowly up the glorious length from knee to thigh to waist, bringing the fullness of her chemise with it. He did not wish to remove the garment, in recognition of her inexperience, but his hands could now discover the secret delights of her. With gentle pressure he parted her thighs, stroking her with knowing fingers until she gasped. Soft, so soft. So responsive as he felt her push, a mere flex of hips, in unspoken answer against the heel of his hand. But still tense. As he captured her lips once more with his own, Nicholas knew that there was no advantage to be gained for her in prolonging the deed. It was all too new and ridden with uncertainties, no matter how skilful and patient he might be. She would suffer—but very little, if he set himself to distract, to lure her into trusting him with her well-being.
‘Look at me, Thea.’ He took his weight on his forearms, demanding all her attention. ‘You do not need to fear.’
‘But I do. You may not like me.’ Admitting her most secret fear.
‘I may not, of course,’ he agreed, dropping the lightest of kisses on the tip of her nose.
‘What will you do then?’
‘If I decide that we will not suit, I will simply send you back to Cousin Jennifer.’
‘Oh.’ The thought made her smile. He caught the quick flash of white in the shadow. ‘Do you think there is any possibility of that?’
Now he kissed her with a passion, allowing his tongue to seek the silk and heat of her mouth, retreating, then claiming her once more, delighted when her tongue touched his in ready response.
‘Do you think there is such a possibility?’ A little breathless now, desire riding him hard, a hunting cat with sharp claws.
‘Perhaps not.’
Moving a little, he allowed his erection to press urgently against her thigh.
‘Do you think I do not want you?’
‘No.’ He felt her arms tighten around him at this clear evidence of his need for her.
‘Nor do I. I want you, Thea. Feel how much I want you.’
So he pushed against her and into her, aware of her eyes fixed on him, wide and trusting. Slowly and carefully, when all his instincts were to take and possess, until he reached a natural resistance. And held back. All her muscles were tense around him. He felt her body flinch from his at the intrusion.
‘Nicholas …! I can’t …’
‘Hush,’ he murmured. ‘Think about …’ What? In the circumstances he had no ideas.
Neither had Theodora. ‘I cannot think about anything but you.’
‘Very well. Hold on to me. Remember that I am as much in your power as you are in mine.’
For he could hold back no longer. One firm thrust and she was his. As without doubt he was hers, buried deep.
She cried out in sudden shock and would have struggled against the weight and power of his body. He felt her muscles tense around him.
‘Wait. Lie still a moment.’ She was immediately obedient, anxiety plain in every fine line of her body. So he kissed her. Lightly, teasingly on face and shoulders, to remind her of the more gentle pleasures of love, holding himself perfectly still. And then began to rock gently until she was accustomed to the movement. Until he felt her sigh, relax and enfold him in the softest heat.
‘Better?’ he murmured against her temple, still controlling every muscle in his body. Resisting the almost overwhelming urge to drive on and on.
‘Oh, yes!’A sigh.
‘Then, lady, let us finish it together. Move with me.’ He encouraged her to arch against him, to move and slide and flex, answering every thrust of his loins until he could resist no longer. Innocent as she was, unaware of the effect she had on him, she drove him to insanity just by being here in his arms. One final thrust brought him to ultimate completion.
Afterwards they lay still until their breathing settled, Thea’s arms still entwined around Nicholas’s shoulders, held tight, as if in disbelief at what had just passed between them. Until Nicholas rolled from her, but not away, so that he might look down into her expressive eyes and read the truth of what
she might feel. Except that the shadows would effectively hide all trace of emotion if she chose to dissemble.
He must know! It was suddenly too important to leave unsaid between them.
‘Well, my Queen of the Desert?’
‘I don’t know what to say.’ Unusually shy, Thea hid her face against his throat. The experience had taken over all her senses, leaving her drained with a strange lassitude, yet longing to know more at the hands of this most skilful lover.
‘Well—let me see. What about: I hate you? It was the worst experience of my life?’
‘No!’
‘I will go back to Cousin Jennifer immediately?’
‘Only if you insist!’
‘Perhaps then that, to your expert knowledge, the Bedouin are far more sophisticated?’ She caught the gleam of a quick grin.
‘No. I cannot claim that.’
Suddenly all amusement left his voice, his eyes. To be replaced by a stern intensity. ‘It will be better, Thea. I promise you that it will.’
‘I said that I can learn.’ Was there still a hint of uncertainty there?
‘You need learn nothing.’ Nicholas kissed her again. ‘Only how to enjoy my body as much as I enjoy yours. You are beautiful and desirable, Theodora.’
The exquisite tenderness of his mouth, his enfolding arms as he pulled her close again, brought a rose-tinted blush from the neck of her disordered chemise to the roots of her hair.
‘Was it very bad?’ It mattered.
‘No.’ Thea sighed, her breath warm against his throat. ‘It was wonderful.’
‘Straw does not make for the most comfortable of bedding. Next time we will do better—with a mattress and pillows.’
Nicholas helped her to her feet, helped her to dress again with careful attention, applying himself to the tiny buttons and laces, pulling on her boots, then putting his own clothing to rights. The little brooch he slid into his coat pocket for safe-keeping, then simply stood and looked at her as if she were a miracle.
‘What is it?’
‘I remember, when they were still living at Burford—and in London—seeing Hal look at Eleanor. As if for him there was no other woman in the world. I think I envied him such a depth of passion and commitment, but I did not understand it. Now I do. You are my world, Theodora. You are my universe.’
‘As you are mine.’
‘I took your innocence.’
‘Do you regret it?’
‘No. How could I when you are here in my arms, as beautiful as you are. But you might. Tomorrow, in the full light of day. You might regret having given yourself to me.’ He feathered his fingers through her hair, removing a stray wisp of hay. ‘So willingly. So generously.’ In his eyes, if she could have seen them in the heavy dusk, there was a plea that she should not hold any regrets.
Nor did she. She spoke from her heart so that he might not doubt her. ‘No. I am yours to take. I think that it was always so. I have been waiting for you my whole life. Now that I am yours, I feel complete.’
His heart turned over in his chest. Such a strong woman admitting to such a dependence, such a depth of emotion that would effectively place one’s future happiness into the hands of another. It would take courage indeed.
‘We will go in,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Tomorrow will be a new day. A new life. When I can love you in the eyes of the whole world.’
‘Can I say something?’ She pulled back, resisting as he took her hand to lead her from the stable. When she lifted his hand to cup her cheek, he found it wet with tears.
‘Thea. What is it? Did I indeed hurt you?’ He caught the tears with gentle fingers, suddenly appalled that he might have pushed her further than she wished to go. ‘Is it that you can not love me so soon? Forgive me, forgive me …’
‘No. It is not that.’
‘Then what is it, my heart? Nothing is worth your tears. If you can not find it in your heart to love me, then you must say it.’ He fought to quell the sudden rush of panic at such an eventuality.
But there was no need. ‘I think you do not understand me.’ He heard a hesitation of breath, but Thea’s voice was clear and confident. ‘This is what I wished to say. I love you, Nicholas Faringdon. I love you.’
He found that he had been holding his breath. Now he could breathe and live again. ‘What more could any man wish to hear from the woman who holds his heart in her hands?’
With an arm around her waist, so that she might lean on him, her head resting on his shoulder, he led her to the house.
Chapter Nine
New York
The house still smelt of new wood and paint, but at least it was complete with walls and roof intact. Or nearly so. Eleanor could still hear sounds of hammering somewhere in the distance, but not so insistently or loudly enough to annoy. Probably the stables, she thought. The room was warm with early summer heat, despite lowered blinds and a light breeze through the opened windows. It was a boudoir, although still lacking more than basic furniture, and Eleanor was at ease. Or she would have been, she thought, if ease was possible for a lady in her condition. She shuffled on the satin day bed, trying to find a more comfortable position. She had been instructed, on pain of death, to rest her swollen ankles and, for a lady who had remained distressingly active throughout her pregnancy until the eighth month, was finding the enforced leisure difficult.
But it was merely a matter of waiting, she consoled herself. And not long now. A smile touched her lips. Pregnancy had done nothing to rob Eleanor Faringdon, once Marchioness of Burford, of her beauty. Her rich auburn hair, only loosely restrained and allowed to fall in waves onto her shoulders, shone with health, her skin glowed. And those deep amethyst eyes, eyes that had captivated Lord Henry Faringdon when she had been a young débutante making her first curtsy to polite society, shone with love and anticipation. The years between that first meeting and the present, in this new home in New York, had been long and fraught with difficulties. But now Eleanor was united with the one who held her heart and would remain so until the day of her death. If she were certain of nothing in life, it was that one incontrovertible fact.
If only she were not so hot. And so … large !
The dark shadows of those distant weeks in London had finally melted away. In New York, free from gossip and sly comment, critical or knowing glances, wrapped around by Henry’s love and constant care, Eleanor had grown into her full maturity, content and confident in their future together. Nothing would ever separate them again. And now she awaited the birth of her second child. Henry’s second child.
It was all so different, she mused, from Tom’s birth, when she had been racked by guilt and anger, the child’s father far distant on the other side of the world, ignorant of her situation. Now Henry was no further away than the warehouse or the stables—and refused to be lured much further until this child had arrived safely. Her thoughts naturally moved on to Thomas, her first husband, lapping her in a well of tenderness. How generous and understanding he had been, how incredibly honourable to give his name to his brother’s illegitimate child. He had loved her, supported her and kept her safe through all the difficulties. Eleanor sighed a little at the sad memories, but they no longer hurt her. Her son Tom was a constant delight. And she believed that in some way Thomas knew and approved of her present happiness.
So, clad in a loose-fitting silk-and-lace robe, Eleanor sat and waited for someone to come and entertain her. Sarah had said that she would call. She would bring patterns for furnishings. And news of any local events or interesting gossip. They would pass a pleasant hour or so.
But until then—a letter lay unopened in Eleanor’s lap. Her mother’s astringent comments were always guaranteed to entertain. Mrs Stamford was in London for a few weeks of the Season, before going to Bath to drink the waters. She had been complaining of the rheumatics in her shoulders and hoped for a miracle at the fashionable spa. Eleanor opened the letter with pleasure at the number of closely written sheets and read for a short while.
A clatter on the stairs heralded an interruption. Eleanor smiled and folded the sheets away There would be no further quiet reading of a letter yet.
‘Mama!’ A sturdy child, tall for his age of almost four years, bounded into the room, with a small black dog of indeterminate origin at his heels, to slide to a halt before the day bed, the dog flopping beside him and panting loudly in the heat.
‘You must come and see, Mama. We have a new horse. Papa says he is for me. That I can feed and groom him—and ride him all by myself.’
Eleanor saw the Faringdon inheritance in her son and her heart turned over in her breast. Her own eyes sparkled out of the youthful face, to be sure. But the rest was pure Faringdon. Dark hair, dense and glossy as a crow’s wing. Straight nose, firm chin, the curves of babyhood beginning to disappear to reveal aristocratic cheekbones. Splendidly arched brows. And a remarkable curled lip, uncannily reminiscent of his father, at the silent reference to the despised leading rein. He was very like his father. All energy and determination, at present overflowing and uncontrolled in youth, but she had seen the adult version in her husband, combined with a certain self-assurance, arrogance even. Tom would ride the horse alone and would pester until allowed to do so. She could not help hoping that her imminent child would be a daughter with a little more of her own softer characteristics in evidence.
‘I will come,’ she assured her son. ‘A little later in the day when it is cooler. You can show me everything then.’ She stretched out her hand to touch his untidy hair, chuckling as he tossed his head with impatience. Another Faringdon trait.
‘He has a black mane and tail and has no name. Papa says I can choose.’
‘And so you shall. What have you been doing?’ His clothes were distinctly the worse for wear and his hair had a faint sheen of dust. ‘At breakfast, as I recall, you were very clean and tidy.’
‘Helping Nat in the warehouse.’
Mr Bridges, she considered, deserved a gold medallion for patience. Tom was at the stage where everything must be investigated and questioned.