Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  She moaned and squirmed, panicky at the invasion. Her hands pressed against his shoulders instinctively, trying to push him off.

  “Calm yourself, Victoria. We just have to get through this first … bit.” His words were strained, gritted out in a way that made her think this might be just as uncomfortable for him as it was for her. “Then it will be good. I promise.”

  She paused, concern seeping into her mind as she considered the shimmering tension in his muscles, in his face. He appeared to be in the grips of significant agony. Reaching up to stroke his cheek, she asked softly, “Are you all right?”

  Eyes flaring, he stared at her incredulously. “Me? I should be asking you that.”

  She winced as he continued to prod her. “Oh. Well, it’s just that you look so strained, and I thought it might be painful for you, as well.”

  He dropped his head and shook with surprised laughter. “No. Not in the way you mean.” He repositioned himself so one hand could stroke her gently, rhythmically just above where they were joined. “I want to be all the way inside you so badly, it is killing me. But if I move too quickly, I might hurt you more than necessary.”

  She huffed and wriggled against the bed. “It hurts a lot, husband. How much would you consider ‘necessary’?”

  He was silent for a moment, then answered, “We haven’t yet breached your maidenhead. It will be painful for a time, then it will get better.”

  That was all the warning she had before he thrust forward and the aching pressure and burning stretch was joined by the sharp, knifing pain of something tearing inside her. She screamed and arched against him, but he would not let up, pressing forward, inch by long inch, sinking deep inside her.

  “There,” he gasped. “It’s done. Now for the good part.”

  She sobbed out a laugh at the absurd statement and slapped his shoulder in outrage. “It hurts, Lucien.”

  “I know, love,” he whispered. He brushed his mouth gently above her ear, then tenderly across her lips. “Bear with me.”

  Then he began to move, slowly at first. When he started the steady, patient thrusting, she simply endured. The pain was not quite as bad as it had been when he first breached her, but he was so large, the pressure on her internal muscles and the flesh at her opening was a fiery ache that made the earlier pleasure seem like a fanciful fever dream.

  Soon, however, as he nibbled her neck and his thumb stroked in tiny circles around that secret little nubbin, her passage grew slick with new arousal, smoothing his way as he stroked in and out.

  In and out.

  In and out.

  Her nipples, hard again and eager to be stroked, were sweetly pleasured as well, since his chest with its crisp hair chafed them with every thrust of his hips. She kissed his neck and moaned as he quickened his motions. Before long, the pace was rather bruising, his hips slamming against hers as the coiling tension rose inside her. Her body paradoxically loved every bit of it—the burning friction, the slap of his flesh against hers, the grip of his hands, one beneath her neck and the other at her hip as he held her at his mercy.

  When the pleasure transformed from a tightening spiral into a giant, rapidly filling bubble, she dug her heels into Lucien’s buttocks and her nails into his back, sobbing, “Please, Lucien. Oh, please. I can’t take it.”

  It seemed to spur him to a lustful frenzy, a deep growl emanating from his chest. “You will. Take all of me. Now.” He thrust his manhood even deeper inside her, all the way to the root, tightening his grip on her neck and hip so she couldn’t possibly resist.

  Her body responded to his ferocity by bursting into flames. She screamed his name as the starburst of unbelievable pleasure exploded, seizing her muscles and rippling over her skin in wave after wave of ecstatic shivers. Her woman’s core seized around him in a fierce grip, spasming and milking him where he continued the deep, unrelenting thrusts.

  Within four strokes, he gave a loud shout of “Christ. Victoria!” before every muscle in his body grew stone-hard, and she felt a gush of warmth surge deep inside, filling her as he groaned in climactic pleasure.

  Minutes later, as he lay atop her, his manhood still inside her, now softer, and yet not entirely soft, his lips played with hers, and one of his hands stroked her hair gently, almost soothingly. Limp with lethargic bliss, she felt like a cat who had just eaten a bowl full of cream and lazed in a patch of warm sunlight. But her husband did not want to let her nap.

  “Lucien?” she murmured.

  “Hmm?”

  “Aren’t we finished yet?”

  He smiled against her mouth and grew harder, larger inside her. “Oh, no, my angel,” he said, shaking his head in a gently chiding way as her eyes widened and she gasped. “We’re just getting started.”

  ~~*

  Chapter Ten

  “If you value either your position or your life, pray do not speak to me before breakfast.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her newest lady’s maid, the fifth in as many months.

  The distinct scent of kippers wafting from the sideboard mere feet from where he sat alone in the morning room was perhaps the only sour note in an otherwise glorious day. Even the mild fishy odor was not enough to dampen his appetite.

  For food or anything else.

  Lucien grinned at the thought, recalling his inexhaustible ardor of the previous day. And evening. And throughout the night.

  But, really, what red-blooded male could blame him? Victoria was … He paused to consider, taking a sip of coffee and popping a warm piece of buttered roll into his mouth.

  Extraordinary. Yes, that was it. She was an innocent in many ways, starting with her virginity, or rather, former virginity. But it was more than that. The way she had admired his house upon arriving, her wide-eyed appreciation of elements he took for granted—a splendid staircase or a painting that, for him, had long since become background—demonstrated how she viewed her surroundings with fresh eyes, unjaded by her wealth and privileged upbringing. She loved and honored beauty in all its forms, but with, it seemed to him, a pure heart rather than avarice.

  Her public behavior, notwithstanding her vulnerability to his sexual advances, was beyond reproach. She treated him with far more graciousness than he deserved, was kind and courteous to servants, and within society comported herself with exemplary decorum.

  On the other hand—and he fervently thanked the Maker for this—she was also an enchantingly sensual, passionate creature, her body lush and highly responsive, her need to touch and be touched obvious in her reactions to him.

  The memory of those reactions slithered like a curl of intoxicating vapor from his head directly down to his cock, stirring him to a hardness baffling in its intensity, given the activities of the previous twenty hours and the fact that Victoria was not presently in the room. Honestly, his body’s obsessive preoccupation with bedding her was a trifle concerning. He had never reacted so to another woman. And there had been many other women.

  Gregory had long teased him about his “supernatural luck” when it came to attracting the fairer sex. In truth, gaining access to a wide variety of females had always been easy. When he was young, country maids in the village near Thornbridge had sighed over his face and form, readily encouraging his randy proclivities. Later, as a member of the cavalry, women swooned over the uniform and flocked around his regiment from Spain to Brussels and back to England.

  He liked women, loved sex, and since the age of fourteen, had made a grand effort to be exceptionally skilled at wooing the first and performing the second. However, this did not explain his ever-present need for Victoria. Even for him, it was just this side of unseemly to be so fixated on one female.

  Especially his wife.

  “My lord, is something amiss?” Billings bellowed as he entered the room with a fresh pot of tea.

  Lucien winced and cleared his throat. “Why do you ask, Billings?” he inquired, his voice raised to reach the man’s mostly deaf ears.

  “You appear most dis
pleased with the marmalade. Shall I remove it for you, my lord?”

  Confused, and thinking perhaps the ancient butler had finally achieved full senility, Lucien glanced around to determine what the deuce the man was talking about. When he spotted the silver dish of marmalade directly in front of him, he realized he’d been scowling at it while pondering his lust for Victoria.

  “No, the marmalade is fine. Perhaps you might remove the kippers, however. When did we begin serving those vile things, anyway?”

  “Cook wondered if perhaps Lady Atherbourne might care for them, my lord. I believe she wished to give her ladyship the opportunity to partake.”

  “Well, I cannot abide them. Take the dish away, if you please.”

  Billings nodded and moved to do so, but his “Very well, my lord” was interrupted by the arrival of Victoria, who paused in the doorway to get her bearings. Lucien immediately rose to his feet.

  Standing, as she was, in a shaft of light from the windows, she fairly glowed in her white morning gown. The softly curling hair that had given him such fierce pleasure when wrapped around her body like so much silk, was once again coiled high on the back of her dainty head. It shone like a halo.

  Having obviously not heard her entrance, Billings turned while holding the dish of kippers and let out a loud, startled, “My lady!” Quickly regaining his composure, the butler bowed deeply and croaked, “Good morning, Lady Atherbourne. I do hope you find breakfast to your liking.”

  Victoria beamed at the white-haired Billings as though he were a handsome beau delivering a bouquet, rather than an aged butler bearing a platter of dead fish. “Good morning to you as well, Billings,” she said brightly, her voice elevated so he could hear her, but not so loud as to be shouting. “It looks positively lovely. I am certain I will adore it.”

  The old man blinked several times as though dazzled by her brilliance, then the wrinkles in his face formed what appeared to be an answering smile. He nodded and shuffled out of the room.

  She turned her smile on Lucien, and he felt a bit dazzled, himself. She curtsied prettily and greeted him with a twinkle. “My lord husband. ’Tis a fine morning, is it not?”

  It took him several seconds to answer, and when he did, his voice was gruff, even to his own ear. “Wife,” he greeted her simply. In truth, the single word was all he could manage.

  When had he decided she wasn’t beautiful, precisely? It had been the conclusion of a fool.

  He eyed her backside as she bent slightly over the sideboard while filling her plate. It was softly, generously rounded, her hips a luscious curve flaring out from a trim waist.

  A bloody blind, addlepated fool.

  “I was not aware you didn’t care for kippers, my lord,” she said, turning around and seating herself at the table.

  As her bottom came to rest on the seat, she winced and her shoulders tightened in discomfort before she relaxed, her face again smoothing into pleasant serenity. It was but a brief flinch, her reactions subtle. Most people would never have noticed.

  But, then, he was watching her quite closely. Much as a cat’s gaze follows a plump, juicy mouse. The feelings that flooded him in that moment were so inappropriate, so powerfully dark, he reeled under the weight of them. He sat and tore his eyes away from her by force of will.

  She was sore. It was obvious to him. He should feel guilt. Husbandly concern.

  He did not.

  Instead, what he felt was a deep, thrumming possessiveness. She is mine, his body insisted. I must have her again. This was not mere lust—that old, familiar friend. Lust was pleasurable, even playful. An itch that was rollicking good fun to scratch. This was something else altogether.

  “Husband?” the object of his thoughts queried.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice rasping past a suddenly constricted throat.

  “Is it fish you don’t like? Or kippers in particular?”

  He cleared his throat. “Fish.”

  “Not even cod or haddock? There are some delicious preparations for both that the cook at Clyde-Lacey House is fond of making. He is French, you know. They are so delicate, they don’t even taste like fish—”

  “Victoria,” he snapped chillingly. “If I want to eat something that does not taste like fish, I have only to eat that which is not, in fact, fish. Wouldn’t you say?”

  All traces of her earlier smile were gone, as though a cloud had covered the sun. She swallowed hard and dropped her eyes to her plate. “Oh. Well, yes, I suppose that is true.”

  A cold shaft of remorse knifed through him. I am a wretched husband, was all he could think. First, he lured her into a ruinous scandal, then virtually forced her into marriage. As if that were not enough, on their wedding night, he showed his virginal bride all the patience and restraint of Viking marauders upon an unguarded monastery.

  Adding insult to injury was perhaps not an ideal way to begin their first morning together.

  “I was sick on it,” he said in a milder tone. “As a child. I haven’t been able to stomach it ever since. Even the smell is offensive to me.”

  The vivid blue-green of her eyes rose and held his for several seconds before a small, gentle smile lifted the corners of her mouth. She nodded understandingly. “My brother Colin had a similar experience with cherries. Although, I must say, a bit too much brandy may have had something to do with it.”

  He grinned at her and chuckled.

  Her lashes lowered as she took a delicate bite of ham. Her plump lips slid over the tines of the fork, and his smile faded. As she sipped her tea, a sheen of liquid remained behind on those lips. They were lush. Inviting. Wet.

  Good God, this was like a sickness. Did other men feel such … absorption with their wives? Such barbaric impulses? He had never heard of such a thing. Now and then, there would be talk of some poor chap becoming excessively attached to a mistress, but never a wife.

  “My lord, I was thinking that since we did not have a terribly …” She paused to search for the right word. “… conventional courtship, we may need to do some catching up, as it were.”

  “How do you mean?”

  She poked at a baked egg as though testing its texture. “For example, I now know you do not care for fish. But what would you say is the dish you like best?”

  “Trifle. Simply delicious.” He raised a brow. “Anything else you’re curious about?”

  She swallowed a bite, seemingly surprised by his willingness to answer.

  Damn, he should not have snapped at her earlier. It set a bad precedent, made her hesitant when he wanted her receptive. Eager.

  “Do you have a house in the country?” she asked tentatively.

  “Of course. Several, in fact. Thornbridge Park is the primary estate. It’s in Derbyshire.”

  “Is that where you grew up?”

  He nodded, taking a sip of coffee. “You’ll quite like it, I think.” For several minutes, he described the estate, with its graceful green hills, surrounding patches of woodlands, the brook winding through the center of the property, and Thornbridge Hall, which had been rebuilt and expanded by his grandfather forty years earlier.

  Her eyes took on a dreamy quality, and she sighed. “It sounds … oh, just lovely, Lucien. I cannot wait to see it.”

  There she was—the glowing angel from earlier this morning. Her face was once again luminous with happiness. And Victoria’s happiness was pure aphrodisiac to Lucien: intoxicating, arousing, and addictive. He pictured all the ways he could cause her to remain in such a state for extended periods of time. Most of them involved his tongue.

  She shifted and another flash of discomfort briefly shadowed her brow.

  An idea, wicked and delicious, formed in his mind. A way to make her very happy and perhaps a bit more comfortable. If he could control himself, that was.

  Of course I can, he scoffed. I am no longer an adolescent youth, at the mercy of every prurient impulse. I will simply indulge in a little play, but stop before it goes too far.

  “My lord
, my lady. I trust everything is satisfactory?” Billings bellowed, abruptly intruding on Lucien’s thoughts.

  “Oh, yes, indeed,” Victoria replied. “Please tell Cook breakfast was delightful. I am particularly fond of the rolls.”

  “Pardon me, my lady. I do believe those are irises.”

  She appeared puzzled, glancing around in confusion. Upon spying the silver vase of flowers on the sideboard, her brow cleared. “Yes, you are right, of course. How silly of me.”

  “Billings,” Lucien shouted.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “You may leave us now. Please close the doors on your way out. And make sure we are not disturbed.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  As the doors closed behind Billings and the footman who had been assigned to breakfast duty, Lucien eyed his wife across the expanse of the table. The distance was a mere six feet, so he could easily watch as Victoria’s eyes darted to the doors and back to him.

  “Lucien. Was that strictly necess—”

  “Come here, Victoria.”

  Her eyes widened and her lips remained open in a small “O.” She did not move, however.

  “Victoria, you are my wife, are you not?”

  “Well, yes, I—”

  “And did you not just yesterday promise to obey me?”

  “Oh. Um. About that, I suppose it is true in the strictest sense—”

  His stare turned predatory. “Then, when I say ‘come here,’ I expect you will do so.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, her lips tightening. Finally, she huffed out a “very well.” Tossing her napkin on her plate, she rose to her feet and flounced over to stand before him. He turned his chair to the side so his knees brushed against her skirt.

  “May I ask why you so urgently require my proximity, my lord?”

  “Certainly,” he said softly, his hands now circling her waist and tugging her between his legs. He grinned wickedly. “But it is better if I show you.”

  He stared at her bosom, rising and falling in an increased rhythm as she sensed what he was about. By God, she had magnificent breasts—round and full and tipped by sweet little rosebud nipples that now poked pleadingly at the white muslin of her bodice.