by Mary Balogh
“I do believe,” he said, lifting his head, still holding her chin, “we have given Toby sufficient time to stake out his claim to every tree in the park. Shall we go inside?”
She nodded. There was a look in her eyes that he recognized. She wanted it, he thought. She wanted him. He felt a rush of exultation, which for pride’s sake he hid. He turned his head and whistled for Toby. The terrier came at a run.
She laughed, the sound a little shaky. “I am not sure I like the way he gives you instant obedience,” she said.
“Perhaps,” he said, looking at her sidelong as he offered his arm again and she took it, “unlike his mistress, he recognizes a master’s voice.”
She chuckled but did not reply.
It was a good moment, he thought in surprise. He had teased her and she had laughed. It was a small, seemingly insignificant incident. To him it seemed that perhaps it was momentous.
• • •
IT felt strange having a maid again. Marie was eager and anxious to please, though she must be somewhat surprised by the smallness and plainness of her mistress’s wardrobe, Catherine thought. She had laid out the best of the nightgowns, the one Catherine had intended to wear on her wedding night.
She wore it now as she waited in her bedchamber for her husband to come. For Rex—she must begin using his name, even in her thoughts. He was right. They were married now, for better or worse. They could only try to make the best of it, try to rub along together, as he had put it.
It was a splendid room, with elegant furniture and a soft carpet underfoot. The bed was very grand, with finely carved bedposts and silk bed hangings and canopy. They would be lying there soon. . . .
She swallowed. She wanted it very badly. She was almost ashamed of her eagerness when she remembered how she had hated him just a few hours earlier for the autocratic commands with which he had tried to control her. But it was an eagerness she must cultivate. There was no point in trying to quell what might well be the only good aspect of their marriage. They desired each other—that had been established beyond doubt outside less than an hour ago.
Tonight she must take his lovemaking for what it was worth and her own response too. She must not allow her essential aloneness to wash over her once the ecstasy was at an end. Perhaps after all she was not so very alone. Despite herself and almost unwillingly, she had admitted during the course of the evening that there were certain things about him that she might come to like if she would allow herself to do so. She liked his intelligent conversation. Her mind had been unstimulated by anything except books for such a long time. She liked his direct, head-on approach to problems, though that had its drawbacks, like this afternoon when he had suddenly demanded out of nowhere to know who Bruce was.
Unexpectedly, she had liked laughing with him. She had not imagined that they would ever laugh together. But they had.
She liked his kindness to Toby, though she would never say so to him. She suspected that he considered it rather unmanly to be kind to a mere dog. She glanced fondly at Toby, who was stretched out before the fireplace, fast asleep. He had suggested when they first arrived that Toby might be more comfortable in the stables, but he had not argued when she had firmly refused.
How could she live without Toby? And how would Toby live without her?
She turned her head suddenly as a tap at her dressing-room door preceded its opening, and he came into her room. She had guessed earlier that the other door in her dressing room must connect with his. He was wearing a wine-colored dressing gown. He looked irresistibly attractive. She was glad suddenly that she was married to him and did not have to quell her desire for him. And she did not stop to remind herself that there ought to be more to marriage than this. For now this was enough.
He stopped and looked her over slowly from head to foot.
“How is it,” he asked her, “that you can make simple cotton appear more alluring than the finest lace, Catherine? You look beautiful with your hair down. No, scratch that. You look beautiful with your hair up. With it down you look—is there a word more superlative than beautiful?”
How could she answer that? She felt herself blushing. The compliment felt good.
“If there is,” he said, coming toward her, “I will think of it—some other time.”
He kissed her, setting his hands at her waist. He did not this time strip her immediately of her one garment. She was glad of it, though she had not questioned his right to do so that other time.
“Come to bed,” he said, his lips still against hers.
He blew out the candles this time before joining her there. She was glad of that too. Not that she had been particularly distressed the other time, but she had been self-conscious, aware that she was to a certain extent on display. She wanted to be able to lose herself in the experience tonight, rather as—yes, rather as she could lose herself in music when she played. She wanted to lose herself in beauty and harmony and passion. She liked the analogy.
He was naked when he joined her. She closed her eyes as he kissed her and as his hands began to fondle her through the cotton of her nightgown. She could remember how he looked, splendidly proportioned and beautiful, one old saber scar across his right shoulder and another over his right hip. But she did not need sight. She could feel his tall and powerfully muscled body. She could smell his cologne and his masculinity. Tonight she set herself consciously to enjoy what he did to her.
“Catherine,” he said, “am I to have a passive lover again?”
Her eyes snapped open. Passive? Could he not tell how on fire she was for him already? It was as much as she could do not to move and squirm against him, not to touch him and let her hands roam over him.
“I could take my pleasure very quickly, you know,” he said as one of his hands was working the buttons of her nightgown free of the buttonholes. “It could be over in no longer than a few seconds.”
She knew that. She drew a slow breath through her nostrils and held it. Oh, she knew that.
“I would prefer to make love to you.” His hand slid beneath the cotton of her gown and nudged it from her shoulder so that his mouth could feather across it. “I know that full pleasure comes more slowly for a woman.”
Did all men know that? And act upon it? No, all men did not.
Her nightgown was moving lower. His hand was beneath her breast, lifting it, and his mouth was moving to her nipple and opening over it. His tongue touched it. She gasped.
“But what I would really like,” he said, his breath warming the nipple his tongue had just wet, “is for you to make love to me too.”
How? She could feel herself stiffen in his arms.
“How?” she whispered, and she was doubly glad of the absence of candlelight.
“Ah, Catherine,” he said, his mouth against hers again. “How glad I am that you are an innocent after all. You allow me to touch you everywhere. Are my touches pleasing to you?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Do you not think your touches would be pleasing to me, then?” he asked. “Do you feel no desire to touch me?”
“Yes.” It was all right to touch him? It was not—improper? She almost laughed with nervousness when her mind latched onto that particular word.
“Then touch me,” he said. “Make love to me.”
He turned her onto her back briefly and stripped her nightgown down over her body and off her feet. He tossed it aside. Then one arm came about her and turned her against him again.
She spread her hands over his chest. It was broad, very strongly muscled, dusted with hairs. She could feel his own nipples as hard buds and moved her hands so that her forefingers could rub against them while she pressed her mouth to his chest. He was lying still, she noticed. Unfairly, he had become passive himself. But she was dizzy with the desire to explore him, to know him. For the moment she did not want him to move.
His b
ack was as firm as his chest. And warm. She could feel the ridge of the old saber wound which must have almost slashed his leg off at the hip. It was not a thought her mind dwelled upon. Her hand slid lightly forward over the wound, over his hip—and would have shied away. But he would not allow it.
“Yes,” he said almost fiercely. “Yes, Catherine. Touch me.”
Hard and long. Ready for her. Her fingers moved lightly over him and then her hand closed about him when she knew from his sharp inward breath that she was pleasing him. How could there possibly be room? But she knew that there was. There was a throbbing deep inside her where she wanted him to be.
“God, woman,” he said, and she was on her back again and he was rearing over her. “I should have tied your hands behind your back rather than invite you to make love to me. Do you have magic in your hands?”
“Yes,” she whispered to him, lifting her arms to pull his face down to hers. She opened her mouth under his. “And magic in my body, Rex. Come and see.”
He was in her in one deep, powerful thrust. She cried out into his mouth with the shock and the wonder of it.
“Now you have made me behave like a schoolboy,” he said urgently. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.” She was gasping and pleading, her hands moving hard down his sides and around to his buttocks. “Yes, I am ready. Give it to me, Rex. Give it to me.”
What followed was fierce, panting agony and ecstasy. He pounded into her, but she was no passive vessel. She thrust her hips against him in a counter rhythm to his own. She heard his final cry mingle with her own. She felt the hot gush inside. And then she lost herself for seconds or minutes or hours—there was no knowing which.
She came back to herself only when a heavy weight was lifted from her and she realized he was moving to her side. She remembered then. She remembered the feeling she had had on her wedding night that what had happened had been only physical, that emotionally and in every way that mattered she was still alone and perhaps more alone than before because her body no longer belonged to herself. She waited for a return of that feeling.
“Well?” His hand smoothed over the shoulder nearer to him. Was that anxiety in his voice? No, probably not.
She turned her head and smiled sleepily. Her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness. He was gazing back at her.
“Mm,” she said.
“Mm good?” he asked. “Mm bad? Or mm leave me alone?”
“Mm,” she said.
“Eloquent.” He reached down and drew the bedclothes up over them. At the same time he slid one arm beneath her head. She turned onto her side and nestled against him. For now she would pretend that the physical unity she had just felt with him was total unity. There was no harm in pretending. Not just for tonight. He was warm and sweaty. He felt wonderful.
He said something else. She was too sleepy to hear exactly what.
“Mm,” she said one more time, and slid down the delicious slope toward sleep.
• • •
HE was relaxed and satiated and very close to sleep himself. But he held oblivion off for a few minutes longer. He rubbed his cheek against the silkiness of her hair. She was warm and soft and relaxed with sleep. She smelled of soap and woman and sex.
His mind, exhausted from so much traveling in the past three weeks, moved back over the past month and more, over all the events that had wrought such a change in his life. Such a catastrophic change, he had believed until—when? A few minutes ago?
He had wanted her from the start—as a mistress. As someone to bed and take pleasure with while he spent a few weeks in the country with his family and friends. He certainly had not wanted any long-term relationship with her, even though, incredibly, his desire had been so strong that he had offered her marriage even before he had been compelled to do so.
He was glad now that she was not his mistress. Catherine was not a woman just for a man’s bed, even though ironically he was making the discovery just there. She was a woman for a man’s life. He was not sure what he meant by that and he was far too sleepy to analyze the thought. But it seemed to him to be a profound thought and well worth returning to tomorrow when he had more energy.
He was glad that they were going to have a lifetime of nights together in which to perfect what happened between them in bed. Their wedding night had been a disaster. Tonight had been far from perfect, though it had seemed so to him just a few minutes ago. Certainly it was far below his usual standard as far as duration went. It had all been over within a very few minutes. And he had taken all the pleasure himself. He had done very little for her pleasure before mounting her in a frenzy of lust.
And yet she had seemed well pleased. She had shouted out his name at the very moment he released into her, and she had fallen asleep with flattering speed. In his arms. There had been no turning away tonight, no tears.
The next time, he decided, it would be all for her. He would hold himself back for an hour if need be in order to bring her all the pleasure he was capable of giving. Next time—perhaps later tonight. He would have to instruct her, though, to keep her magic hands to herself.
He smiled against her hair. He had had women with hands far more skilled and experienced than Catherine’s. Why had hers caused him very nearly to disgrace himself?
He was very tired. He must sleep. But he knew he would not sleep all night. He knew he was going to want her again before morning came.
He was glad there was a lifetime. . . .
He could hear Toby shift position before the fireplace, yawn loudly, close his mouth with a snap of teeth, and fall silent again.
Lord Rawleigh almost chuckled aloud. But he was too sleepy to make the effort.
18
SHE had not expected to be happy or anything approaching happy. She had not wanted to marry Viscount Rawleigh. Being forced into marriage with him had seemed a nightmare, even though she had always felt an unwilling attraction to him. She had expected to mourn her cottage and the life of quiet contentment she had built for herself there.
In the event, she found herself unexpectedly happy during her first couple of weeks at her new home. It was lovely—oh, yes, she had to admit it—to be living in a large house again, surrounded by a spacious and beautiful park, with servants to see that it all ran smoothly. And it felt good to know that she was mistress of Stratton Park, that after all she was a respectably married lady, the Viscountess Rawleigh.
She spent the full morning with Mrs. Keach the day after her arrival—she suspected that the servants were amazed to see her up so early. The housekeeper showed her about the house and explained its running and showed her the housekeeping books and took her belowstairs to talk with the cook. The house was efficiently run and the cook’s menus varied and nutritious and delicious. Perhaps many new brides would have been cowed into allowing everything to continue as before without her interference. Catherine did not interfere, but it was clear to everyone within a few days that she was indeed now mistress of Stratton.
It felt good to be mistress of a large home again.
Word was quick to spread, not only that Viscount Rawleigh was in residence again, but that he had brought home a bride with him. There was a steady stream of callers during the first week, almost all of whom issued invitations. During the second week Catherine was out almost every afternoon and evening, returning the calls, attending the dinners and entertainments to which they had been invited. It seemed that social life at Stratton would be brisk even when the novelty of her arrival in the neighborhood had died down.
Then there were the vicar of Stratton and his wife to be met during the first week and the villagers and farm tenants and laborers to nod and smile at on the street and at church while they gawked and smiled in return. During the second week she began calling on them all, fitting in the visits between those to the gentry.
She was busier during those two weeks than she had ever
been before.
During the first week a dressmaker and two assistants arrived from London. Catherine had not known they were coming. But she was given orders to spend the whole of a morning with them and was quickly reminded of the mingled excitement and tedium of being measured for clothes and of choosing fabrics and trimmings and patterns for a dizzying number of garments of all kinds. She had no choice in the numbers—that had been preordained by her husband. It seemed she needed everything for all occasions.
She did not argue. She had sewn her own clothes for five years and had been satisfied with the simplicity of her garments and their sparsity. They had suited her needs. But she accepted the fact that she must now dress for her new role. And she discovered again how good it felt to be fitted for fashionable, well-made clothes. Some of them were ready very quickly. The three seamstresses were to remain at Stratton, it seemed, until all were finished.
As was to be expected, she did not see a great deal of her husband. She was busy all day with household duties and with visits. He was busy about estate business—Catherine discovered early that he took his duties as landowner seriously and that he was quite in command of the running of his estate despite the existence of a competent steward. In the evenings they visited or entertained together, but the demands of sociability kept them frequently apart.
And yet there was no sense of avoiding each other, Catherine felt. They usually took meals together. Occasionally they found time for walks and rides together.
She found that after all it might be possible to like him. Now that he was at home and busy he seemed less the idle, bored man of pleasure than he had appeared at Bodley. And now that they were married, he was no longer the dangerous, persistent rake. He seemed well liked at Stratton. He was certainly well respected. His father before him, one tenant’s wife told her, had been an indolent man and something of a gambler. The estate had been in a sorry state when his lordship inherited. But he had succeeded in turning everything around within a few years despite the fact that he was fighting in the Peninsula.