by Lavinia Kent
Only it was different, not in cut but in fabric. She’d never worn silk so thin, so translucent. Her whole body showed through it: the deep rose of her nipples, the shadow between her legs. She looked more than naked.
And her eyes were huge, the pupils filling the deep brown irises. They appeared almost black. And her lips—she must have been chewing on them for the last hour. Red and puffy, swollen.
She did not look at all like the proper Countess of Brookingston. She looked—she looked like a woman who was about to have a wedding night. And smelled like one too, if Madame had any understanding of scent. Roses and cinnamon. Louisa had never tried such a thing before.
But a wedding night? Why had Madame Rouge ever suggested such a thing?
And why had she accepted it?
She didn’t need a wedding night. She needed something simple and fast—and over.
The only reason she was doing this was so that she could get on with her life.
Still—a wedding night? Madame had explained that perhaps it would be best if she had some real experience before she thought of marriage again. She should know if this was as awful as her mother had described. Still, Madame had never even mentioned that it might be painful.
Painful. She hated pain.
A deep breath. In. Out. Another. In. Out.
She could do this.
She could.
And then she had no choice.
The handle on the door turned and he stepped in.
She had only the impression of largeness and gray silk before she hurriedly shut her eyes.
She wasn’t ready. Heat rose on her face. She would tell him it was a mistake, tell him she’d made a mistake.
“Is everything to your liking?” His voice filled the room, vibrating about her, husky and deep, a river cascading over rocks.
She opened one eye and saw his mask, white cotton and plaster covering his whole face, dark, unruly curls rising above it. She remembered what Madame had said, how she’d worked to ensure Louisa both privacy and comfort. “Can you see anything?”
“Not a thing. There is a halo of light at the periphery of my vision, but that is all.”
“Oh.” He couldn’t see her. See this silly, transparent gown. See the deep rose darkening her cheeks.
“I’ll ask again: Do you like what you see? Is everything to your liking?”
Louisa opened her other eye—and stared. He couldn’t see her. He didn’t know if she was staring at him or at the ceiling. She could look as much as she wanted and nobody would ever know.
It was freeing in a way she had never imagined.
He was large. Well, not so much large as tall. She’d never considered herself short, but next to him she felt small, fragile. And she was in her bare feet. Not even an inch of heel to help.
She stepped forward and looked at his feet. They weren’t bare, but shod in black velvet slippers. Very large—almost huge—black velvet slippers. They didn’t add much height, but still …
“Take off your shoes?” she said.
“What?” Had he growled?
“Would you please take off your slippers?”
“Why?”
What was so difficult about this? A minute ago she’d felt free, and now suddenly she felt she was doing something wrong. Perhaps men didn’t take off their shoes when they … She’d always thought they did, but perhaps she’d been wrong. She’d never really thought about it. She was sure that they didn’t need to take off their shoes to use their—their penises. She should have asked Madame more questions. Madame was correct: She did need more experience if she was ever to pretend to having had a normal marriage. “I am sorry, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, if you don’t normally … I really don’t know … I just thought … You’re just so tall … I thought you’d be less frightening without your slippers. I don’t know why. I guess feet seemed calming.”
“Feet seem calming?” His growl turned to a chuckle.
“Are you going to question everything I say?” This was not going at all the way she had planned—in fact, she could never have imagined its going like this. She turned and paced away, trying to decide what to do next.
“Don’t go,” he said.
“I thought you said you couldn’t see.” She turned back, suddenly frightened.
“I can’t, but I can hear.”
Had she made noise? She supposed even with bare feet there’d be some soft treading upon the carpet. “Oh.” She stood there not knowing what to do next. She’d hardly glanced at him beyond his slippers.
She let her gaze slide up. Black trousers. Silk. Very loose, not at all the normal fit. And a robe—gray, some type of brocade. Very thick and soft. That was what she’d seen when he’d first come in.
“Do you still wish me to remove my slippers? Will it make you feel more at ease? Even without seeing I can feel how stiff you are.”
He could? “Yes, please, but only if you customarily do. I want everything to be normal.”
“Normal. I told Ruby I wasn’t the man for this,” he said in a whisper surely not meant for her ears. And then much louder, “I can assure you that I do remove my shoes, although on occasion I enjoy keeping on my boots.”
She swallowed and hoped he couldn’t hear. He kept on his boots? Shoes she could almost understand, but boots? Why would a man wear boots when he …
This really was all too confusing. She should go—only her confusion showed beyond a doubt that she had much to learn if she ever wished to pretend she was not inexperienced in marital matters.
“Yes. Please take off your slippers.” That sounded calm, in control.
Lifting one leg, he toed off one shoe and then the other until his feet were naked. Naked feet. She’d never thought of them in that fashion, but now—now she could think of nothing else. His feet were naked. Large toes peppered with dark hair. Tanned skin. Did he go outside without his shoes? She felt breathless at the thought.
She took a step closer, her eyes still locked on his feet. She wanted to touch them, to stroke the hairs and see if they were soft or … What was she thinking? It was good that he couldn’t see her or he’d know she looked like a beet.
“Is there anything else you’d like me to take off?”
Louisa’s gaze shot up to his face—or at least to where his face should have been. The mask was quite disconcerting. Not ugly, but so blank. She wanted to see him, to see his eyes, his lips—to know what he was thinking.
“Take off the mas … your robe.” No, she did not want to see his face, to risk recognition. This was better, impersonal. If she saw him she might always remember him. This way she could plaster John’s face over his in her thoughts.
That was it. She would pretend this was truly her wedding night and that he was John.
“My robe? If that is what you wish.” He untied the belt at the waist and let the brocade drift open.
He was not wearing a shirt!
His bare chest stood before her in the flickering light of candle and fire. All she could do was stare. He had muscles—muscles like the men she’d seen digging in the fields. Muscles like a laborer. She’d never imagined that a gentleman would have such a chest. They seemed so much thinner within their shirts. And hair. His chest had hair—not a lot, but dark and definite. Did many men? She’d never been close enough to the fields to see, and John had not—not that she’d ever gotten a good look at him either.
She’d always pictured smooth skin—more like her own, or like a young babe’s.
Perhaps he was a workman. Madame had never said who he was, what he did. It was only in her own mind that Louisa had pictured a gentleman like her husband.
She stepped closer. She could feel the heat rising off his body, see each breath rise within his chest. His small nipples looked almost like—like raisins. She wanted to see if they tasted as sweet.
She wanted to nibble, to bite, to touch.
Her hand moved toward him without thought, the fingers stretching out.
She forced it back, locked both hands at her sides. Nobody had told her she might feel this way. Was she supposed to? She knew her mother would have been horrified.
“You can touch if you like,” he said. “I felt the air move, knew what you wanted.”
Her lungs caught. What she wanted. Yes, that was what she wanted. “Do women touch? Is it acceptable?” She reached out her fingers, held them just above his heart, but did not settle them on his skin.
“Yes, women touch. Men like it when women touch.” He took a tiny step forward until her fingers were upon his flesh. A small shiver took him—and her—at that meeting of skin.
He was so warm, so hot. His flesh felt as if it would burn her fingers. She rubbed them across his chest, loving the rough feeling of his hair beneath her palm. He moved like a cat beneath her, his chest expanding to meet her every touch.
“Can I smell?” she asked.
“Smell?”
“Are you going to repeat everything as a question? Is it acceptable for me to see what you smell like, what scent you use?”
She felt his chuckle beneath her fingers, vibrating throughout his chest. “Yes, you can smell me, sniff me—do whatever you like. This is your evening. It is about your pleasure.”
“Pleasure?” Now she was the one repeating. Pleasure? She’d never thought of this as involving pleasure. But as she ran her hand across his skin and again felt him respond, she knew that she was enjoying, indulging.
“Yes, pleasure. Anything you do not wish you have only to say. And anything you do wish you have only to ask. Did not Ruby tell you this?”
“Ruby?” Repeating was almost becoming a game.
“Ruby—Madame Rouge. Did she not tell you that all the decisions were yours? That you had the ultimate control? I will give direction, instruction in this matter, but it is all for your pleasure.”
“Yes, Madame had said something, but …” But she had not really listened, too busy picturing how it would work in her own mind. Her mother had mentioned the bed, staring at the ceiling. This had confused Louisa, because from what she’d seen of animals it was hard to imagine staring at the ceiling while the male, the man, did that. She had never been quite able to put the body positions together in her mind. But now she was going to learn.
Men had hair on their chests—and on their feet. They took their shoes off—but not always their boots. It was acceptable to touch. There was pleasure.
Already she was learning.
She was still not quite sure of that last. The pleasure. It went against everything she had ever heard.
“Are you going to smell me? I haven’t felt you near me, except for the wonder of your touch. Are you thinking about something else?”
She looked up at him again. She wished she could see his face, see his thoughts. “What is your name?”
“Why do you need to know?” His tone deepened, became gruffer. At least he had not repeated her words.
“I merely wondered. I’d like something to call you, some way to think of you besides ‘the man.’ ”
“John. You can call me John,” he said.
All the blood drained from her skin. What had Madame told him? What did he know? Could it possibly be a coincidence? She stepped back, her hand leaving his chest. She’d planned to imagine him as John, but this—this was too much.
“You’ve grown quiet,” he said.
“My husband’s name was John—but then, Madame must have told you.”
“Fuck.” His curse startled her. “No, she said nothing. I just chose the first name that came to mind. The most common. I did not mean anything.”
“So it isn’t even your name?”
“Yes. Well, no. It is one of my names. I have several. Shall I choose another? I thought you wished anonymity.”
“Yes, well … yes. I do. So what name do you choose?” She placed her hand back upon his chest. It seemed to belong there, just above his heart. The now rapid beat, calming and yet exciting.
“Does Charles work? No bad connotations?” He placed his hand over hers, holding it tight to him.
“Yes. And I will be Grace.” She’d always wanted to be called Grace, had named her childhood doll Grace, the doll that still stood upon her dresser.
“Then, Grace, are we ever going to progress to sniffing?”
Sniffing? At least she hadn’t said it aloud. She leaned forward and placed her cheek against him, across from her hand, letting herself absorb his warmth.
Soap. That was her first thought. And something with a slight musk—amber? Or was that just him? And leather? He smelled of leather. And yes, there was a hint of smoke, of tobacco. And apples? Did he truly smell of … “Apples?” she asked.
His whole chest moved beneath her face as a single deep laugh left him. “Yes. A green one. I like them sharp—not quite ripe. Hard to find at this time of year.”
Why did the words “not quite ripe” make her think of herself? Was he trying to tell her something? “Do you do this often? Take a woman’s virginity, I mean? Has Madame hired you before?” She hated the thought of that on some deep visceral level. She hadn’t thought of it before, but now that she had …
“What do you think I am?” He pulled away. “Some whore? Some Casanova?”
“No, I just thought … Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t think. Please, I am sorry.” It was her turn to bring him back. She caught at his arm, his muscles bunched beneath her fingers—harder than she could ever have imagined. She stopped and felt, stroked. Even in the midst of apology and anger, she could not stop herself from wanting—blast, she didn’t even know what she wanted, just that she wanted.
He stopped. And turned, staring down at her, as if such a thing were possible through the thick mask. “I am not being paid. Ruby asked me for a favor and I agreed—no, don’t move your hand. It was a favor I am delighted to fulfill. I am not doing this for any reason except that I want to. And I do not deflower virgins. Never have. Well, maybe once, but I was barely more than a boy, and never trusted that she spoke the truth.”
“Oh.” Her voice was very small. She moved her fingers down to his wrist and then up to his shoulder. His arms were so different from her own. The lower part, the forearm, was covered with those rough but soft dark hairs. They grew sparser as she proceeded up his arm, until near the shoulder there were hardly any. And his upper arm. It looked almost as if he’d stuffed a largish ball beneath the skin. She could not even reach about it with both her hands. She formed an almost-meeting cuff about his arm and then stroked downward. His body shook as she passed the tender skin of his inner elbow, then moved down to his wrist. Here she could shackle him, wrap her fingers tight. And up again and down. She loved how his flesh moved beneath her, how his whole body responded to her every move.
She pulled his arm up, rested his palm upon her shoulder and laid her cheek against his wrist, and then his forearm. The hair here was softer than on his chest, although the skin was less like velvet. Not in a bad way. It was merely a little rougher, had seen the elements of a few more days. She liked the feel of it.
She turned her face into his arm, rubbing her lips against him. She moved upward, stopping at the inner fold of elbow. The skin was slightly damp, salty. She let her tongue slip out. Tasted. Nipped.
He jerked back. “God, woman.”
“Did I do something wrong? I thought … I am sorry.” Her chin dropped, just when she’d thought she understood.
He reached out, and after missing once by inches, laid his palm upon her cheek. “No, I should be sorry. You did nothing wrong. In fact you did things very right. I was just not expecting … Let us leave it at that I was not expecting you to do that. But it was all right. In fact, it was very all right. I liked it. It brought me pleasure. It was merely unexpected.”
“Oh.” She looked at the slight mark her teeth had left upon his skin, barely visible. With care she reached out and touched his skin, running her fingers over the slight redness. “Then can I kiss it better? Taste you again?”
“Be careful or you will unman me. I fear Ruby knew me better than I know myself.”
“I don’t know what you mean, but is that a yes?”
He held his arm out to her, waiting for her to bring her lips to it again.
She complied, tasting, licking, rubbing her cheek, her lips against him, delighting in how different this was from anything that she had ever experienced.
Madame had been so right about the mask. With nobody watching it meant she was free. She could do whatever she liked and nobody would ever know. Well, he would—but somehow it was different without his eyes upon her.
And that brought a thought to her mind. “Can I see your …”
“You can see whatever you desire, my sweet.” His arms dropped, his thumbs hooking over the low waistband of his loose trousers.
She found her courage. “Can I see your—your back?”
“My back. Of course—she wants to see my back.” A long, deep laugh filled the room.
Chapter Four
The woman wanted to see his back. God, this was torture. How slowly did she expect him to go? He wanted her hands on him—on all of him. And her lips. When she’d nipped his inner elbow he’d almost lost his composure. And she’d had no idea, no idea what thoughts lips on flesh put in a man’s mind. And the nip. The feel of her teeth. A single bite and he’d been ready to let go.
And she hadn’t understood at all, thought she’d displeased him.
When the truth was so different.
He had to watch every word he said, every action he took, or she’d slide away into fear and confusion. He could feel her reach out in exploration and wonder—was it possible to feel another person’s wonder?—and then if he expressed any doubt or question she’d shrink off.
He hadn’t believed Ruby about the woman’s innocence, but it was even greater than Ruby had described.
The woman didn’t know if it was normal to have sex with your shoes on. He grew harder just thinking about it, about her—and given the rocklike stature of his cock, that was a natural wonder.