She’d scarcely heard the words Connor had spoken to her at the altar, but she understood what he was saying to Isobel now. They should pack tonight, as he meant to send for the family tomorrow. Thinking that made perfect sense, she nodded as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of her home.
Isobel hopped out, scooped up a fidgeting George, and headed for the house. Adelaide rose from her seat, intending to follow. Should she pack her ivory muslin gown, she wondered, or had it become so discolored as to be unsal-vageable ?
An arm looped around her waist before she could so much as poke her head through the door.
Laughing, Connor pulled her back inside and onto the bench beside him. “Where do you think you’re going, love?”
Stunned, she stared at him. “I . . . You said you’d send for us tomorrow. After we packed. You said it not two minutes ago.”
“I said I’d retrieve the Ward family tomorrow—” He reached over and closed the door. “—Mrs. Brice.”
It was then that she realized that she wasn’t quite as clearheaded as she’d imagined. Of course he’d not meant for her to return with Isobel and George. Because she was his wife now. Because this was their wedding day. Because, oh, good heavens, it wasn’t done.
Alarm shot through her at the belated realization that there was more to becoming a wife than going through the motions at a chapel. There were . . . other motions. Secret, wicked motions of which she had only the vaguest understanding.
“I . . .” Her eyes shot to the door again, and if the carriage hadn’t begun moving at that very second, she may well have made a second attempt at escape.
Evidently, her thoughts were plain to see, because Connor slipped an arm under her knees and hauled her into his lap. Her alarm spiked to near panic. Did he mean to have it done in a carriage?
But that particular terror was short-lived. Connor gave no indication of taking premature—in her opinion—advantage of his marital rights. He pressed her cheek to his chest and draped his arms loosely about her waist. She felt his chin brush the top of her head.
“You’ll not regret today,” he said softly and moved his hand in gentle circles against her back.
Clearly, he wanted to soothe her. She wanted him to be successful. She feared they were both bound for disappointment.
She was surrounded by the scent of him, vividly aware of the hard beat of his heart and the latent power in his muscular frame. He was so much larger than her, stronger than her, and undoubtedly more knowledgeable of what was shared between husbands and wives.
She could think of nothing but him, of what he would do, and of what a shortsighted fool she’d been to ask her mother about her wedding day when she ought to have asked after the wedding night. Not her mother’s wedding night, specifically, she was quick to amend—no one should be made to suffer the details of one’s parents’ wedding night—but a wedding night. She ought to have asked her mother what happened on a wedding night.
She wondered if she could ask Connor, and then wondered if asking was really necessary. While there were a good number of details that were unclear to her, she wasn’t completely ignorant of the subject. The fundamental mechanics were known to her . . . somewhat.
Maybe she should have spoken with one of the village women, or even Isobel, whose insatiable curiosity had probably led her to acquire a book on the subject. Did they produce books on the subject? Blast, she ought to have asked someone about that.
Connor’s lips brushed her hair. “Don’t think so hard, sweetheart.”
“I’m not.”
A soft laugh rumbled in his chest. His thumb sought the inside of her elbow, stroking the delicate skin. “Close your eyes, wren. Relax.”
She took a slow breath and concentrated on the gentleness of his touch and the careful, almost sheltering way he held her. It helped, a little. She wasn’t relaxed when they reached Ashbury Hall, but neither was she quite so tempted to make a dash for home.
It also helped that the staff was not lined up for a formal welcome. In her opinion, the potential awkwardness in such a scenario was mind-boggling.
Thank you all for such a warm and generous welcome. As we all are perfectly aware, my first act as mistress of the house shall be to bed your master. Do excuse.
Good heavens.
Mrs. McKarnin and a maid were the only servants waiting inside. “Shall I take your gloves, ma’am?”
“What? No!” Adelaide grimaced when the housekeeper’s eyes grew wide. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. McKarnin. What I meant to say is, thank you for the offer, but I shall retain my gloves for now.” No article of clothing would be removed until such time as it became absolutely necessary. The fact that this was absolutely ludicrous was something she chose to ignore.
Mrs. McKarnin’s expression softened to one of understanding. “As you like, ma’am. Is there naught I might do for you?”
“There is. Might I . . .” Ask you some wildly inappropriate questions? “. . . have a small glass of wine?”
Connor stepped up beside her. “I’ll see to it, Mrs. McKarnin. Thank you.”
He placed a warm hand on her back and urged her forward with subtle pressure. Adelaide had no choice but to follow where he led—across the great hall, up the stairs, and down the hall of the family wing. But to her surprise, Connor led her not into the master chambers but its adjoining sitting room. It was relatively smaller in size and less imposing than the rest of the house. The colors, mostly blues and greens, were softer here, the centered chaise lounge and set of upholstered chairs were feminine in design, and the wood in the room was stained a golden brown that glowed in the flickering candlelight.
She watched as Connor crossed the room to pour a small glass of Madeira at a sideboard and wondered if he’d had the room finished with her in mind. Then she wondered if he’d be willing to trade a night’s reprieve for the chance to outfit his sitting room however he liked.
Oh, for pity’s sake, she thought with a huff. Her fear was pushing her past ludicrous and straight into cowardice. With a long, steadying breath, she released the death grip she had on her skirts and gave herself a stern lecture.
She was being a ninny. Women became wives every day. Presumably, no one had ever died of the affliction. So, what was there to fear, really? A few moments of embarrassment and discomfort, that was all. Hadn’t Connor bartered for ten times a day? It must go very quickly indeed if one could fit the deed in ten times a day.
Probably it was like the birds she’d spied in her mother’s garden. A bit of flapping about and it was done.
“How bad could it be?”
Connor turned from the sidebar, a small glass in hand. “Beg your pardon?”
“Nothing,” she chirped and forced her face into serene lines.
Expression tender, Connor crossed the room to her. “I don’t want you to be afraid, Adelaide.”
“I’m not.”
He handed her the Madeira and said nothing, which was tantamount to calling her a liar.
“Very well,” she conceded, “I am perhaps a little nervous. But I imagine it’s rather like pulling a thorn from one’s finger. The anticipation is worse than the deed. Grit one’s teeth, a quick tug, and it’s over and done.”
“Over and done,” he repeated.
“Yes.” She nodded once, then reconsidered and grimaced. “I didn’t mean to make that sound quite so much like I was anticipating an injury.” Now that it was brought to mind, however, an injury did not seem outside the realm of possibility. “I’m sure it will be lovely.” No, she wasn’t. “But as we never got around to concluding the matter before, you should know . . .” She drank the contents of her glass in a single swallow. “I’ll not do this ten times a day.”
“Ten times . . .” Connor blinked, then closed his eyes on a groan. “Oh, hell.”
“Oh, hell” was not the response she’d been hoping for. “I am willing to negotiate. A little.”
Connor opened his eyes, took the glass from her, and set it aside, a
ll without saying a word. Then he took her hand and spoke in a tone of patience, sympathy, and regret. “Adelaide. Sweetheart.”
“Oh, dear.”
She wanted to snatch her hand back and use it to cover his mouth. Nothing good ever came from a tone like that. It was the sort one used to deliver the news of illness and death and—
“I was jesting about the ten times.”
“Oh.” Well, that wasn’t too terrible. She didn’t care for having been the victim of his jest, but it was a relief to know she’d not be expected to—
“It’s not like pulling out a thorn,” Connor explained.
Relief vanished. She knew it was too much to hope that he meant it wouldn’t hurt. “It’s not done quickly, is it?”
His mouth curved. “Not when it’s done well.”
“Let’s do it poorly,” she suggested.
“You won’t like it done poorly.”
She was afraid she wasn’t going to like it done any way. “Couldn’t we try?”
Connor sighed. “You’re afraid now.”
“Well, I wasn’t when I thought it would all be done in a rush,” she muttered.
“There will be a rush.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Never mind.” He brushed the hair back from her face. “Do you trust me, Adelaide?”
Oh, dear, not this again. “If you’re asking if I trust you to make a fair job of . . .” She waved her hand in the direction of the chambers. “. . . that, then I suppose I really haven’t a choice.”
There was a pause before he said, in a very dry tone, “You make me feel like a king.”
“Would you prefer I be dishonest?”
“Let’s try this again,” he suggested, a heartbeat before he slipped a hand behind her neck and brought his mouth down on hers.
Instinctively, she wedged her hands up between them. They fluttered indecisively, then settled on his coat lapels as his lips moved over hers with gentle, coaxing pressure. For a moment, she was reminded of their first kiss in the garden when he’d tempted and teased her into a willing submission. But it took only another brush of his lips, another careful sweep of his tongue, for the comparison to fade away. This kiss was nothing like any that had come before. There was no demand, no maneuvering. He kissed her not with determined patience, but with a tenderness that seemed infinite.
A heavy warmth settled over her tingling skin and seeped inside, stealing the strength from her limbs. She let herself lean against him, and his arm slid around her waist, pulling her closer so he could take her weight. His mouth left hers to trail feather-soft kisses across her cheek. He pressed his lips to her temple and tasted the sensitive skin along her jaw.
She shivered when he reached the delicate lobe of her ear, then gasped when he tugged gently with his teeth.
Connor whispered against her skin, “You like this part, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
He toyed with her now, finding the spots along her neck that made her tremble. “The rest is just like it . . . Only more . . . Let me.”
She felt herself give a shaky nod, and in a single, fluid motion, he swept her into his arms.
Dimly, she was aware of being brought into the bedchamber, of more glowing candlelight and the faint crackle of fire. Her world dissolved into a languid series of sensations—the slide of her feet to the floor, the pressure of his mouth on her neck, the thick silk of his hair in her fingers. As the warmth progressed to heat, she grew restless, anxious for the next touch, the next shivering pleasure. But Connor remained relentlessly, maddeningly slow in his seduction. He undressed her leisurely, stopping to taste and touch every inch of newly exposed flesh. Gently, he drew her trembling hands away when she tried to help, tried to make him hurry.
“This way,” he whispered and swallowed her whimpering protest with his mouth. “My way.”
Despite the warm air in the room, she knew a moment’s chill when he slipped her chemise over her head. Connor laid her on the bed, and the chill was banished by the hard heat of his body settling over hers. The feel and scent of him enveloped her . . . The faint aroma of sandalwood, the soft bristle of the hair on his chest, the heat of his hands as they glided over her skin.
He brushed her thigh and sought the heat between her legs. She squirmed beneath him, caught between desire and embarrassment.
“Connor . . .”
“Shh, love . . . let me.”
She stopped struggling and gasped at the first smooth glide of his fingers. Deftly, he stroked and teased until the pleasure turned into a delicious ache, and the ache became a desperate need. She moaned and strained beneath him, grabbing at his shoulders, his hair, any part of him she could reach. Connor dipped his head to draw a nipple into his mouth, and suddenly the need was pleasure once more—a great solid wave of it that drew every muscle of her body tight as it crashed over her and left her dizzy and panting in its wake.
On a shuddering sigh, she lifted her lids and found herself staring into Connor’s hooded green eyes. They were dark with passion, glittering with triumph, and filled with warmth.
His hands slid under her knees. “Put your legs around . . . that’s it.”
He shifted his weight and pressed into her slowly. There was pain, but it was slight. It did nothing to diminish the extraordinary feeling of Connor’s body moving over hers or her desire to rush headlong into the next sensation, the next wave of pleasure. Until he muttered something against her hair and pushed himself inside her with a long, determined thrust of his hips.
Suddenly, the moment was no longer quite so enchanting.
She dug her nails into his shoulder and cried out. “Oh! Ouch!”
Connor went perfectly still but for the heavy rise and fall of his chest. “I’m sorry. Darling, I’m sorry. It had to be done.”
Done was exactly what she wanted to hear, and exactly what she intended to be. She shoved at him. He wouldn’t budge.
“Connor—”
“Lie easy, sweetheart.” He bent his head and brushed his lips across hers. “Lie easy and wait. It will get better. I promise.”
He kissed her again, slow and deep, and the pain ebbed into mild discomfort. His hands skimmed over her skin, reigniting fires that had been doused. They were flickering sparks at first, then little flames that licked and teased and finally burst into life. Cautious, she ran her hands up the hard bands of muscles in his arms, and down the smooth plane of his back. She heard the rough catch and release of his breath, and she felt the violent beat of his heart against her palms.
Connor trailed kisses up her neck, across her jaw. “Better?”
“Yes.” The discomfort was all but gone, replaced by the inexplicable need to move. “I think . . . I want . . .”
“I know.” Carefully, he withdrew partway, then slid inside again.
“Oh.”
His lips curved in a wicked smile. “Better?”
She couldn’t answer. He moved again, beginning a steady rhythm of gentle invasion and retreat that robbed her of speech. The ache and need returned, different this time. Tentatively, she arched up to meet him and was rewarded with a low masculine groan. Connor dropped his head, burying his face in her hair. His movements grew faster, more forceful, and still they weren’t fast enough, or slow enough, or something. She needed something.
“I need . . . Connor, I need . . .”
“Shh. I know.”
He reached down to stroke her where their bodies were joined. Pleasure broke over her, wave after astonishing wave of it. And just as she began to surface, Connor gathered her close, thrust deep, and shuddered in her arms.
Chapter 21
Adelaide opened her eyes and squinted against the early morning light that snuck around the edges of the drapes. Not quite half awake, she rolled onto her back to escape the glare and stretched the aching muscles in her legs. The softness of new linen caressed her bare skin. She nearly moaned with appreciation . . . Until she remembered why she was bare-legged in a bed
covered with soft linen and not tangled up in her scratchy wool blanket and perfectly ancient night rail.
She was married. She was a wife.
She rolled her head on the pillow and found Connor fast asleep beside her.
Good God, she had a husband.
A bubble of laughter formed in her throat, the sort that came when one teetered between outrageous delight and outright panic. She swallowed the laughter and the panic. The first because she didn’t wish to wake Connor, and the latter because she recognized it as illogical and useless.
The next step, that was what she needed to think of now.
Only she ran into a spot of difficulty concentrating on the next step. It was far more interesting to focus on the step she’d taken last night.
Her wedding night had been a whirlwind of discovery. What they’d done . . . What she had done . . . Wanton did not begin to describe her behavior. Probably, she should be ashamed. At the very least, she should feel embarrassed. She didn’t. She felt deliciously wicked, enormously pleased with herself, and wildly curious about the man sleeping next to her.
Connor was her husband. She’d married him and shared a bed with him. And yet she knew so little about him.
Her gaze trailed over his prone form, searching for details. He slept on his stomach, his arms under the pillow and legs sprawled out—taking up far more than half the bed, she noted. Dark blond lashes, thick and long enough to ignite a silly spark of envy in her, rested on skin pale by heritage and lightly tanned by the sun. He had a tiny scar at the hairline, and a large one that started at the base of his left shoulder blade and formed a two-inch, jagged trail down his back before disappearing under the sheet. She frowned at it, wondering what sort of injury had caused it, and how terribly the wound must have hurt. It was a stark reminder to her that he’d not always had soft sheets to sleep on, that his life had been bleak for a time.
AN Unexpected Gentleman Page 21