Love Then Begins

by Gail McEwen

  “Sir!” she protested and broke free. “Please! I will swoon!”

  “Well, I hope you enjoyed your taste of freedom for it will not happen again for a good while.” He looked down at her and although he feigned a stern tone of voice, his eyes were alight with a different sentiment. A brief rush of nervousness swept over her as he took the packet from her, but she relaxed again when he tossed it onto the desk without a second look. “Most irresponsible,” he muttered and gently tugged at the bonnet ribbons.

  She smiled and took over so that he could replace his arm around her waist and continue to hold her. She found she had missed it. Indeed, the way he looked at her with a distinct hunger, and the way the warmth of his closeness burned through her still cold clothes made her hands shake impatiently just a little.

  “There,” she said and threw the bonnet and gloves on a table. “So I gather you missed me? I was only gone for a very short while.”

  “No, you weren’t,” he said, “you were gone an age. I have been thinking of all the terrible things that might have happened to you, planned the most spectacular rescues and plotted revenge upon you for your selfishness. Come here.”

  He led her to the sofa and sat her down, immediately taking the seat beside her and drawing her close.

  “I cannot imagine,” he said quietly fiddling with the lace around her neckline, “what possible topics you could have to discuss that kept you away so long, or that are more important than what you and I can indulge in right here.” He leaned over and kissed the smooth, cool skin on her collarbone. She sighed as she felt the touch of his warm, dry lips.

  “Nothing of . . . import, I assure you,” she said and ran her fingers through his hair. “Just . . . the usual.” She found it hard to concentrate as his hands lightly ran down her bodice settling on her stomach.

  “Good. So . . . it would not disturb you if I suggest we leave your mother’s health, opinions and greetings for later?” His hand now travelled down her hip, slowly inching up the fabric of her skirts.

  She sighed. “No, not at all. That . . . that can wait. Most definitely, that can wait . . . until later.”

  And indeed, she soon forgot about her mother, and everything else, for his fingers were running lightly along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. His breath and lips at her neck and throat were sending shivers of delight over every inch of her body.

  “There’s so much beauty here,” he murmured. “There’s the line of your hips, the softness of your bottom, your hair, the delicious taste of you and the way I long to feel your skin against mine. Nothing between us—no fabric, no selfishness, no hurry.”

  The combination of sensations made her quiver with desire. She leaned back and pulled him to her. “Now love . . . I need you . . . now . . . ”

  “No, you must wait,” he whispered hoarsely into her ear. “This is your punishment . . . this is my revenge for five hours and forty minutes of torment.”

  So he took his time, touching and re-discovering every aspect of the woman who had felt so far away, so distant just a short time ago—committing her to memory once again. Only after he had indulged himself in her closeness, once his hands remembered her softness, his head once again filled with her scent and his mouth recalled her taste, did he relent.

  “I think maybe I should go away more often,” she murmured when he at last released her.

  “No,” he said lazily tracing her neck and shoulders with his lips, “I really don’t think you should . . . It has been most stressful.”

  “Will you take me upstairs?” she whispered.

  He smiled and nodded.

  “This time we will stay there,” he said. “For five hours and forty minutes, times five hours and forty minutes, you are only mine.”

  IT WAS AMAZING, HE REFLECTED later in the night, how a single candle in its fragility could light up a whole room, how it could make perfect alabaster skin shine, chestnut hair glimmer and eyelashes cast shadows. Just like this one woman could make him feel things he never thought possible. How she could take him to the depths of despair and heights of euphoria simply through her words and being so close. Indeed, how she made him simply experience sensations as if they were new and unique.

  He wondered if she was asleep. She was lying so still beside him and her breathing was so deep. He watched her and the simple beauty of her so close to him. But watching a miracle was not enough. He reached out his hand and slowly brushed those long silken tresses from her face and shoulders. She stirred and as she turned around to his touch her throat and breasts were exposed. As he leaned over, unable to resist their promise of unimaginable sensations, she opened her eyes.

  “My lord,” she mumbled, her voice husky with sleep. His hand found its way through the sheets and rested in the warmth and moisture of her body.

  “Don’t say that, love,” his mouth closed on those exposed rounds and nooks, “I am not your lord; I am your slave.”

  “WHY IS IT,” THE YOUNG husband asked as he leaned, arms crossed, against the doorway, “that every time you go missing, I always seem to find you here?”

  She turned and smiled down at him from the ladder where she was standing, perusing the upper shelves with several books in her arm.

  “Mostly it is because, aside from my own chamber upstairs, and yours, the library is the one room in this house that I know best. But today,” she turned back and continued her search, “it is because I am in search of reading material for our journey.”

  He could not but notice her lack of enthusiasm, in fact, he shared it, but it really could not be helped. She looked back at him again, her expression hopeful.

  “Must we really go quite so soon?”

  “I’m afraid we do, love,” he sighed. “I’ve kept you to myself for long enough so it’s high time I play the responsible and thoughtful Master and bring you round to meet the staff at Cumbermere and in Town.”

  He watched as her brow creased and her hopeful face fell, and for some reason he could not help the huge grin that spread across his features.

  “What do you find so amusing?” Holly demanded, a little sharply.

  “Well, aside from the fact that I am rather flattered that you are as reluctant to see the end our honeymoon as I am, I think the reason for my smile is the sight of you on that ladder again, arms full of books and looking at me crossly.”

  “And why should my looking at you crossly cause you to smile?”

  “Because,” he said as he stepped into the library, closing the door behind him, “it gives me the opportunity to rectify some past wrongs as well as remedy some very glaring oversights I have been guilty of in this very room.”

  “And what might those be?” she asked with a slight smile.

  He held his hand up to her.

  “First, my ravishing librarian, I must ask you to come down from that ladder.”

  “Well, if that is the case, you had better help me.”

  Holly placed the books on his outstretched hand and gave him a saucy smile as she carefully made her way downwards a few rungs. Wasting no time, his lordship dropped the books on the nearest chair, climbed up behind her so that her descent was arrested on the third rung or so, and covered her hand on the rail with his one hand and the hand that held her skirts with the other.

  “Be careful now,” he breathed in her ear. “Wouldn’t want you to fall, now would we?”

  She swallowed. “If I do it will be no fault of mine, sir.”

  “Shall we descend together, madam?”

  And slowly, step by step the made it to the floor where he turned her around and, with her back to the ladder, leaned in closely with his hands lightly on her shoulders.

  “And what were those wrongs and oversights?” she questioned breathlessly, so very aware of his closeness.

  “First of all,” he pulled back slightly, “I will look at you adoringly and tell myself how very fortunate I am that you are here. Next I will tell you how much your presence here always meant to me, and how the
mere thought of you in my home gave me comfort.” He touched her nose with the slightest breath of a kiss. “I think then I should let you know how much I adore you.” Another soft kiss to her forehead, “and I will confess that you have disturbed and bothered me from the first moment we met,” softly, softly his lips brushed her cheeks, “and that I should have long ago realised my motives for bringing you here.”

  She leaned back against the ladder, marvelling at how strong a sensation could be evoked by the slightest of touches. His words in her ear, his breath against her skin, his lips raising goose flesh as they brushed along the sensitive spots. She lifted her hands to pull him closer but he very gently pressed them back down to her sides.

  “Then I am going to say the words I have not said nearly enough though I have thought them, and written them, and known them for so long now—I love you.”

  “And I love you,” she gasped as he brushed her lips and chin and throat with his mouth, kisses so soft it was as if they did not touch her at all—but they did touch her, she felt each one deeply. His soft teasing fingers pushed aside her collar and his lips lightly teased and tickled the exposed skin. In this room where they had laughed and quarrelled, talked easily or awkwardly, where she had worked and he had watched, this room where she had so many times held back tears of frustration or heartache, she felt his warm breath between her breasts and she felt something else, something overwhelming, rise within her.

  “Love me,” she whispered.

  “I do,” he moaned back into her décolleté, “oh I love you, Holly.”

  “Now. Love me now.”

  He pulled back with a smile and reached out his hand to guide her upstairs but she grasped his waist and pulled him close again, looking him boldly in the eye.

  “Now!”

  “Now? You mean . . . here?”

  She smiled a sly smile that caused its own overwhelming rise in him and he leaned in to kiss her again. He pressed into her and lost himself in the sensation of her, of her hands on him and his hands sweeping over her body, until he heard her somewhat desperate voice.

  “Oh . . . the ladder . . . my back . . . ”

  Without a word he swept her up in his arms and carried her to the sofa, lying her down and moving in above her. He pushed her skirts up and parted her legs, taking a long moment to savour with his mouth the luscious place just where the top of her stockings met the bare flesh of her thighs. She moaned and writhed as his lips and tongue caressed the sensitive skin but then, as he moved higher he returned to the soft, restrained movements of before, scarcely touching that tenderest of places, filling her with desire and frustration in equal measure. He teased her with his swirling, flickering tongue until she reached down and grasped the back of his head, pulling him into her.

  “Please . . . ” she pleaded. “Oh please . . . I need . . . ”

  He relented and moved in, giving her what she needed and she felt an explosion of feeling as she moaned and clutched at him, and then he was above her again and she was guiding him inside her. She felt the tightness of her stays at her waist, the cool air of the room on her exposed lower body and the heat and hardness of her husband above her and inside her and she was lost to everything but the sensations that filled and surrounded her. He brought her to the heights of pleasure, but even then he did not relent. She heard his voice in her ear, egging her on to more, and to her surprise as he still moved inside her, there was more . . . much more . . . until at last they both lay, exhausted, gasping for breath and covered with perspiration on the sofa in the library that had been the scene of so many volatile encounters between the two of them.

  “So that is how you rectify your previous wrongs?” she asked when she had caught her breath.

  “Making me lose my composure and all my sense of propriety? Forcing me to plead for what is rightfully mine?”

  He lifted his damp head from her chest.

  “Can you think of a better way?”

  “Well, no,” she admitted as she tried to straighten and adjust her clothing while still beneath him. But despite her shifting and tugging, he appeared to be in no hurry to move.

  “Good,” he dropped his head back down, oblivious to her efforts, “because I’m afraid that was the best weapon in my arsenal.”

  The Progress of Love

  It was a cold and inhospitable day when Lord and Lady Baugham at last set out from their honeymoon at Clyne Cottage in Scotland to begin their journey to Cumbermere Castle in Cheshire. A damp and piercing wind blew in from the west and although icicles began to melt downwards on tree branches and roofs, there was no doubt winter was far from over and before long would be back with snow and frost once more. However, the roads were tolerable and his lordship had insisted on removing rather sooner than later in case the weather once more conspired against them.

  Lord Baugham glanced at his watch while he struggled into his great coat. It was early yet but they should be on their way if they wanted to avoid more than two nights on the road before reaching Cumbermere. Mr McLaughlin came in and gruffly announced the carriage was ready and all the requested hot bricks and blankets for her ladyship were in place. Baugham thanked him and sent another glance up the stairs wondering if his wife realised that the sooner they were on their way the sooner they would also arrive, this being a rare instance where his distaste for his ancestral home was only overshadowed by his even more intense distaste of travelling long distances.

  Just as he started fiddling with his watch again he heard steps on the upper landing and he saw her descending with Mrs McLaughlin in tow.

  “Ah, there you are!” he greeted her as if to be able to speed her descent with his words. “All is ready. Only farewells remain. And I suppose you and Mrs McLaughlin have already settled that most admirably between the two of you. Shall we?”

  Mrs McLaughlin gave him a dark look, but when the two women reached the bottom of the stairs, his wife smiled faintly and Mrs McLaughlin fussed over her shawl and thrust a small bandbox into her hands, after which she wiped a tear from her eye, retrieved the bandbox again and put it down to once more embrace her mistress.

  Baugham tapped his foot. His wife sent him a look and smiled at Mrs McLaughlin, reassuring her she would be fine and she had remembered everything. His lordship took his wife’s arm determinedly and led her out of the house and up to the waiting carriage. Mrs McLaughlin was still wiping her eyes and Mr McLaughlin looked down at the ground. Hasty farewells were said, part of which were made up with Mrs McLaughlin fussing about her ladyship’s bandbox and the appropriate place for it, while managing to press a few letters into her ladyship’s hand that Mr McLaughlin had already fetched that morning. When that was settled at last, the carriage then transported Lord and Lady Baugham away from their most successful honeymoon at Clyne to assume the duties attached to an earl’s seat in Cheshire.

  Holly glanced at the correspondence in her hand.

  “Elizabeth!” she said happily. “For you,” she then frowned and gave her husband the other letter.

  He took one short look at it and pursed his lips. “Tilman,” he growled and stuffed the letter from his steward into his pocket without another look. But then the earl looked at his countess and was very pleased with what he saw. She smiled back at him and after taking the liberty of tucking her under a blanket, moving as close as possible and taking her hand in his, he removed her glove and kissed her hand.

  “I can tell you are tired,” he said. “It is my fault as usual. I should not have kept you up last night.”

  “No, sir,” she said now smiling even more, “you should not have. And I’ll have you know those were very underhanded tactics you used to achieve your goal.”

  “Well, I do not recall hearing any complaints, but I will keep it in mind.”

  “Keep in mind the appropriate hour of the day when you should develop an interest in counting my vertebrae, love. I could hardly complain about the measure, only the timing of it.”

  “But it was most educational
,” he said feigning innocence. “Although, I confess there were so many I cannot exactly recall how many you have. Can you? And do you know how many I have?”

  She shook her head. “I expect rather the same number as I have.”

  “Ah, but keeping in mind the difference between the male and female physique, perhaps it would be a good idea to extend your theoretical knowledge with some practical study tonight? Can you be persuaded to admit me to your chamber at our humble hired lodgings so you may perform the experiment?”

  She could no longer refrain from laughing at him and the boyish enthusiasm he still showed in the thought of planning solitary meetings with her. He had, in fact, perfected it to a kind of art and there were many more nooks and corners at Clyne that offered plenty of chance to expand theoretical knowledge than she had suspected.

  It had been nearly three weeks since that extraordinary day when they first walked to Clyne as man and wife. Three weeks of long nights, late mornings, avoiding servants and the most unexpected lessons in possibilities of satisfying that never fading need to feel him close—his breath, his smell, his taste, his touch and his skin. She knew she loved him in a thousand ways when he first carried her up those stairs so long ago now, but that that fact could be confirmed again and again on a daily basis was a revelation to her.

  And now, Christmas was over, Twelfth Night had come and gone, and they were on their way to yet another intriguing journey. One that she suspected would teach her more about her mercurial husband than she had thus far imagined. Herself as well, no doubt. After all, she had very happily made the change from Miss Tournier to Holly, then the slightly more difficult one to Lady Baugham. Now she was on her way to discover just who and what the Countess of Cumbermere might be.

  She glanced out of the window. The pale New Year sun hung very low and shone straight through the windows yet unstained by the dirt of the road. The familiar landscape would change little by little as they progressed on their way. She wondered if she would change, too, little by little. Well, perhaps they would do so together.