The Wedding Affair

by Leigh Michaels

The earl extended a hand to help her stand again. Without her boots, he seemed much taller, and suddenly she felt tiny and helpless and vulnerable. He reached out as if to cup her chin, but instead he tugged on the ribbon holding her bonnet in place.

  Penelope uttered a faint protest and saw surprise sparkle in his eyes. She supposed it didn’t make much sense—after all, she was standing there in her shift and corset but making a fuss about taking off her hat… She swallowed a sigh and pulled the bonnet off. Released from captivity, her hair straggled down around her face and wild curls sprang out in all directions. She must look as if she was just getting out of bed…

  Close enough, I suppose. At least he knows what he’s getting.

  She didn’t protest when he turned her away from him once more. For a moment he rested his fingertips against her neck, barely touching the hairline, and then slowly he pushed upward so each finger drew a channel through her hair, rubbing and relaxing the muscles in her scalp.

  Penelope swayed a little and wondered how much wine she’d consumed. She hadn’t realized she’d had so much to drink that she would be dizzy, but perhaps she had lost count.

  A moment later she felt the warm touch of his hands against the small of her back as he released the ties of her petticoats and let them drop to the floor. Then he began to work the knot loose in the lacings of her corset. “I see you do not lace yourself so tightly that you have difficulty breathing,” he said.

  Unlike the other women you’ve undressed? she wanted to ask. But Penelope kept her silence. He must already have noticed she made small pretense of being fashionable.

  As the cords slackened, Penelope knew she should be more comfortable, but in fact her chest felt increasingly tight as his gentle touch worked slowly up her back until the corset was loose enough to remove.

  Finally only her chemise remained. Not only was a good deal of leg bare, but the sheer fabric didn’t truly conceal even the sections of her body that were still covered.

  The earl took a long look. Penelope wondered if he was noting how her breasts, no longer supported by the corset, sagged. Or perhaps he was wondering why the circles around her nipples were so much darker than the rest of her skin. She’d wondered herself at boarding school, when she compared her body to the other girls. But did his long survey mean there was something wrong there?

  Trying to act casual, she crossed her arms across her chest.

  His gaze drifted lower to the shadow between her legs. Penelope could feel her knees trembling. She wanted to lower her hands, but she wouldn’t be able to bear it if he laughed at her.

  The earl reached out and slowly untied the string fastening the neck of her chemise. Trailing one finger downward, he traced a line from the base of her throat through the shadowed cleavage, pushing the soft fabric aside to bare her breasts to his gaze.

  He has every right to look, she reminded herself. And to touch. But if he didn’t like what he saw…

  Under his steady gaze, she felt as if her skin was on fire. Simple embarrassment? Or something else, something that heated her from the inside out?

  Was he breathing just a little faster, or was it only her imagination?

  When he took his hand away, she felt as if a cool breeze had drifted across her skin—but rather than feeling refreshed, she wanted to shiver and press herself against him so she could be warm again.

  He continued to look at her as he undressed. Every movement he made was efficient and refined. He was even graceful as he pulled off his boots, and he displayed not so much as a hint of self-consciousness. But she understood. Unlike her, the earl knew he was pleasant to look at. No doubt all his previous feminine audiences had made clear how much they appreciated his broad chest, strong shoulders, and well-defined muscles.

  When he unfastened his breeches, Penelope couldn’t keep her gaze under control. When he stepped out of his smalls, she couldn’t contain her gasp.

  The duenna who had chaperoned Penelope through her betrothal had told her something of what to expect in the marriage bed. But now she couldn’t help but wonder if Miss Rose had ever seen a man firsthand.

  Penelope had thought her husband overwhelming the day before when he’d stripped to the waist in his bedroom, but the rest of him was even more compelling. Broad shoulders narrowed to hard, well-defined hips, and the strong angles of his body drew her gaze on down to what Miss Rose had coyly called man-parts.

  If that was what made a man, Penelope thought, then the earl must be more manly than most.

  Her lips suddenly felt dry. Half-consciously she ran the tip of her tongue across them, and she was startled when his penis seemed to grow longer and thicker and stand out even more strongly from his body.

  He gently unfolded her arms from across her chest and pushed the straps of her chemise off her shoulders. The garment dropped to the floor, pooling around her feet, and Penelope stood completely naked in front of her husband.

  “Get into bed.” His voice was low and harsh, and Penelope scrambled to obey.

  Miss Rose’s words echoed in her mind. Do not anger your husband. Simply lie still and let him do as he wishes. It will be over quickly.

  She slid between the sheets. The cool linen was like a balm against her overheated skin, and the quilt was thick, concealing her lack of curves. At least now he would no longer be looking at her so closely—and perhaps finding her wanting—and she was glad.

  But he took hold of the quilt and the sheet, stripping the covers away to drape them over the foot of the bed so she lay sprawled across the mattress entirely bare to his gaze. “That’s better,” he said as he stretched out beside her.

  With the very tip of his forefinger, he traced a line from her forehead down past her ear, along her throat, and around the back of her neck to spread his hand over her nape as he bent to touch his lips to hers.

  He had kissed her once before, and though his caress had been no more than a cool and formal end to their brief wedding ceremony, at least this gesture was familiar. Penelope relaxed a fraction, knowing what to expect.

  Except… she was wrong.

  This time, his mouth wasn’t chilly and firm. He was all heat and motion, his lips searing hers, his hand at the back of her neck holding her, gentle but insistent. “Open your mouth for me,” he said, and when she did, his tongue delved in, sweet and tangy and refreshing. He tasted foreign, different, and yet utterly right, like a perfectly executed dish from the hand of a master chef. Unable to stop herself, she darted her tongue against his, and in turn he deepened the kiss.

  He cupped his palm around her breast and a shiver shot through her. How, she wondered, could his touch on her breast make the spot between her legs feel damp and warm and somehow all aglow?

  As if he understood what she was feeling, he stretched his hand downward over her belly and her hip, slowly insinuating his fingers between her legs. She wriggled against him until his fingertip brushed a most sensitive spot, and she cried out.

  He pulled back and said, “It’s all right if you want me to stop.”

  But her cry had not been protest but simple surprise, and when he withdrew his hand—withdrew himself—she felt empty and cold, and as if she had ruined something wonderful.

  “No,” she said. “If that is what a husband and wife are supposed to do, then do it—now.”

  “Before you change your mind?” he said dryly. He didn’t wait for her answer but bent his head to her breast. He had barely touched his tongue to her nipple before it peaked. He traced the rosy aureole and then settled down to suck and lick and tease the eager point. He divided his attention between her breasts, tracing the shadow between them with his tongue, and slipped a hand between her legs once more.

  Penelope wriggled under the flood of senses—the heat of his mouth, the chill of air on her damp skin, the silky brush of his hair against her throat, the scent of his soap teasing her nose, the gentle firmness of his fingers stroking between her legs. Each individual sensation seemed to be expanding, circling outward unti
l they collided and caused ripples to run throughout her body. She was glad she was lying down, for her knees were even shakier than before.

  She was gasping, and something seemed to be wrong with her vision, for the edges of the room had grown darker and she couldn’t focus. As she closed her eyes to concentrate on the heat growing between her legs, he slid one finger inside her body and nudged at a sensitive spot she’d never dreamed existed. Penelope’s world tore apart. She bucked and shuddered against his hand, and he held her as she rocked against him and cried out.

  He waited until the quivering stopped, and then he parted her legs and settled his weight over her. “This will hurt a little.” He sounded breathless. “But it will soon be over.”

  Miss Rose’s warnings echoed in Penelope’s mind. It will be over quickly, the duenna had said. Lie still… Penelope tensed, remembering she had not exactly been still.

  He nudged the head of his penis inside her and Penelope trembled. But she knew somehow that what lay ahead would be even more wonderful than what had just happened, and so she forced her muscles to unclench as she lay quietly under him and waited.

  He slid slowly inside her, and she could feel herself soften and stretch to welcome him. He hesitated and then pushed past her barrier, and Penelope gulped and whimpered a little with the shock.

  “It’s all right now,” he whispered against her temple, and when she eased once more, he slid a little deeper, inch by slow inch. She could sense the tension in him, could see the tightness of his jaw. Instinct told her to rock her hips just a little, and she looked into his eyes as she moved, seeing surprise there even as he sheathed himself completely in her. Her moment of triumph, of enjoying the power she had exerted over him, faded in fear that she couldn’t contain him. But then the heat took over, and as he began to move, the pressure started to build again inside her.

  He pressed deep and then withdrew almost completely, stroking inside her as thoroughly as he had caressed her breasts. Each thrust grew more urgent, and Penelope’s breath caught painfully in her chest as she reached once more for fulfillment, somehow knowing an ecstasy even stronger than before lay within her reach.

  With one last powerful thrust, he took her over the edge. Then, even as she shuddered with her release, he clenched his jaw and pulled away from her.

  Caught up in the waves of sensation surging through her, arching in exaltation, she didn’t notice for an instant that he was no longer sheathed inside her body, and when she did, she was too self-conscious to wonder why.

  Ten

  The riders who dismounted that afternoon in the stable yard at Halstead were much quieter then they’d been on the outbound trip in the morning, and Simon was relieved when most of them simply turned their horses over to the grooms and straggled off toward the house for refreshments and a rest.

  He led his own gelding into the stables and reached for a currycomb, glad to have an excuse to stay away from the company for a while.

  In a nearby stall, Andrew Carlisle put a final polish on the gleaming coat of his own horse and grinned at Simon. “I never knew you to be so fond of currying your own mount before, my friend.”

  “The grooms have their hands full. You got back safely with the carriage?”

  “Surely you didn’t doubt it, with the very efficient Kate Blakely managing the trip. We must have been half an hour ahead of you. Miss Emily will be safely deposited in her bed by now with the doctor in attendance.” Andrew patted his horse’s neck and moved over to help Simon. “Did Lady Daphne complain all the way back about the pall the accident threw over her party?”

  “Most of it,” Simon admitted.

  Except, of course, when he’d tried to glare his sister into silence—for instead of taking the hint to watch her tongue, she had accused him of being every bit as irritated with Miss Emily as she was. Since Kate Blakely and Andrew Carlisle had been sent off with the carriage, Daphne had pointed out, Simon himself was required to accompany the riders all the way back to Halstead. Which meant, Daphne finished triumphantly, he could not make some excuse to stay in the village with Olivia Reyne.

  Since he’d been hoping to do exactly that, Simon was particularly annoyed that Daphne had hit the nail precisely on its proverbial head. He hadn’t bothered to deny his plans because a protest would only have given her more reason for suspicion. Instead, he’d contented himself with staying on the opposite side of the group from his sister and hurrying the riders along as best he could, while he daydreamed about what he’d wanted to be doing instead.

  Taking Olivia out to her garden for tea—along with more creative forms of refreshment.

  But a cottage garden in Steadham village in the middle of the afternoon was hardly a private enough spot for the sort of tryst Simon had in mind. To be honest, it had barely been secluded enough at midnight, considering the enthusiastic response of his lady.

  Definitely his attention would be better spent in concocting a smoother scheme for their next rendezvous. Doing his planning in private might be wise, too, since even thinking about making love to Olivia again was enough to stir his blood.

  “Chadwick arrived this afternoon,” Andrew said. “Warren and Ponsonby should be in the village by evening, and the rest of the group are on their way. You did say you’d hired the entire inn to house your friends until the wedding? You’ll need it—but with three more single gentlemen on hand, tomorrow should go more easily no matter what Daphne has planned.”

  “An archery contest, I believe.”

  “Twelve young ladies loose on the range with bows and arrows in hand?” Andrew shook his head. “I believe I’ll stay in my room with a head cold. Charles can take my place—it’s his turn. Where did he disappear to today, anyway?”

  “He rode over to Stoneyford.”

  “I suppose he found something in disarray, since he has not yet returned.”

  “More surprising if he didn’t find something in disarray.”

  “Perhaps his lady wished to closely inspect the property.”

  Simon paused, and the gelding stamped and snorted in halfhearted protest. “Did he take Lady Townsend along? He didn’t mention it.”

  “You didn’t notice she disappeared at the same time he did? What’s the matter with you, Simon? You must have had other things on your mind today.” He added slyly, “Lady Reyne could knock the sense out of most men with no more than a look.”

  Simon felt a sudden urge to wipe the smirk off his friend’s face. Suddenly the stable was even more uncomfortable than facing the bridesmaids. He turned the currycomb over to a groom to complete the job and walked over to the house. Andrew ignored the cold shoulder Simon was attempting to give him and strolled along.

  The butler greeted them in the front hall. “Your Grace, the duchess has requested you to call upon her in her private sitting room as soon as possible.”

  “As soon as possible?” Andrew gave a soundless whistle. “He’s up to his neck in trouble this time—eh, Greeley?”

  The butler said stolidly, “I have no opinion on the matter, Mr. Carlisle.”

  The hell he didn’t, Simon thought. Greeley was just too diplomatic to express his thoughts.

  Simon considered letting his mother wait while he washed up and changed his clothes, but in the end, he went directly upstairs to the duchess’s rooms—the ones she had chosen for herself after the death of her husband, when she had left the principal suite for Simon to occupy. Choosing her own view, she had often said, was one of the few privileges of being the dowager rather than the duchess.

  When his mother’s maid admitted him, the duchess was sitting in her favorite chair in the bay window overlooking the gardens with a glass of ratafia in her hand. Kate Blakely perched on the edge of the nearest sofa.

  The duchess looked up at Simon. “The ruins of the abbey must be cleared at once.”

  He was absurdly relieved to discover the source of her concern. “Sir Jasper Folsom owns the property. I can discuss the matter with him, but I cannot compel
him to take action.”

  “Don’t be foolish, Simon. Of course he will do as you like, for you’re the duke, and he’s a mere baronet.”

  “The remains of the abbey have stood there for two hundred years. This is the first collapse I’ve heard about—and I’ve wandered through those ruins for the past two decades. Would it not be more sensible to simply forbid future expeditions? In any case, after this week Daphne will be in Oxfordshire, and no one else at Halstead is apt to organize such a party.”

  “After an accident such as this, we cannot take chances again.”

  Miss Blakely cleared her throat. “Ma’am, Miss Emily was climbing on the wall when it collapsed. If not for her own actions, she would have been perfectly safe.”

  The duchess’s eyes widened. “Climbing on the wall? Who dared to accuse her of such a thing?”

  “Lady Daphne did.” Kate Blakely’s voice was wry. “Miss Emily and Miss Horatia seem to have been attempting to peer over the barrier to check whether the duke was within range.”

  “Indeed. One must wonder why they bothered, when he has been so very disobliging to all the girls. Thank you, Miss Blakely.”

  The phrase was a dismissal, and obediently Miss Blakely stood and curtseyed.

  The duchess said sharply, “What is the stain on your skirt?”

  “Moss, Your Grace. From kneeling on the stone floors of the abbey. I should have changed before coming to report to you, I know, but…”

  Simon moved a little closer. “But knowing how anxious you must have been to hear all the news, Miss Blakely did not delay for even an instant to change her clothes.”

  “Well, your habit is quite ruined,” the duchess said. “You must have a new one.”

  Kate Blakely’s jaw was set, but her voice was level and calm. “At the moment, Your Grace, I have neither time nor inclination for sewing and no funds for materials.”

  “Nonsense. The dressmakers I brought down from London to see to the bridesmaids’ gowns have nothing to do. Send the modiste to me immediately, and I shall set her staff to work. I’m certain she can find something left over in the cupboards that will be suitable for you.”