Michelle Styles

by An Impulsive Debutante

  ‘Then I will do my best.’

  He leant forward and let his hand slide over her collarbone. Felt her quiver beneath the pads of his fingers. The dress gave way and revealed a creamy patch of skin at the base of her throat. Soft skin that begged to be tasted. Without thinking, his head bent and he sampled the silken softness of her for an instant. Heard her sharp intake of breath, but she did not move away from him.

  He risked a glance into her eyes. Waited. Her wide blue gaze stared back at him. She reached out and touched his lips with one finger.

  ‘Lottie.’ He took a step closer. Their bodies touched. She turned. Slowly and deliberately she lifted her arms, put them around his neck and pulled him forward. Their mouths touched and her lips parted. He tasted her sweetness, her innocent passion. The way her tongue bashfully entered his mouth and then retreated, only to return. This time more boldly, and to become entangled and to drink deeply. Playful, but unskilled. And all the more enticing for it.

  His body responded with all the pent-up energy from their other encounters. Became hard to the point of pain. Urged him to take action, but he wanted to initiate her slowly, to show her what the true sweetness of passion could be like. He had seen what could happen if a woman was not awakened properly. It was one of the reasons why he had avoided the responsibility, but now it fell to him. She was not some courtesan or bored society beauty with an aged husband and well versed in the arts of lovemaking—she was his wife, his innocent wife, and she deserved his care.

  Her passion-drugged eyes looked up at him as he withdrew his mouth. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Everything is well.’ He pushed the cloth from her shoulder and revealed her soft curves, curves that cried out to be savoured. ‘I haven’t finished your buttons yet.’

  ‘You did promise to be my lady’s maid.’

  ‘It may take a great deal of time.’

  ‘I never thought.’ Her cheeks flamed pink and she spun around. Tristan allowed himself the exquisite torture of undoing one button at a time. Her gown fell to the floor in a whoosh and he swiftly unlaced her.

  As he removed her corset, his knuckles grazed her breast. There was a sharp intake of breath, a stiffening of her spine. Tristan paused, exerted control over his body. His hands ached to caress the two mounds, to feel her nipples between his fingers, to roll them and to hear her gasp of pleasure. But he had to go at her pace.

  ‘I can finish this,’ she said with a thickening in her voice that told him she was not adverse to his touch.

  ‘No, no, allow me. I do have some experience with ladies’ undergarments.’ His hand brushed her fingers from the drawstring. He pushed the petticoat down her body, so that she stood in her chemise.

  She gave a small hiccupping laugh. ‘You do have the reputation of a rake.’

  ‘Much undeserved.’ He cupped her cheek with his palm. ‘The ladies understood the game, but they are in the past. You are my present and my future.’

  ‘And now?’ The question escaped Lottie’s throat before she could prevent it. All the time he had been undressing her, a fire had been building inside her, threatening to overwhelm her senses and good intentions. She had wanted to turn and kiss him again, but had not dared. She wanted to maintain a wifely dignity.

  His hands closed on her shoulders and pulled her back against him. Her bottom met his hardness, leaving her in no doubt about his arousal. The sensation thrilled and alarmed her in equal measure. This was the deep, dark mystery.

  ‘You are my wife. You should be in truth. There are none to interrupt us here.’

  His wife. The words had a curious echo of her mother’s warning. A wife was something different than a mistress. Men had different expectations. Instantly she straightened, held herself away from the tantalising pressure behind her. ‘I don’t need any more assistance. I can do the rest.’

  His fingers turned her body so that she faced him. ‘But I do.’

  ‘I have never undressed a man before. I would not know where to begin.’ She tried for humour. ‘My fingers are all thumbs. I am more likely to strangle you with your stock than unwrap it.’

  ‘As you wish…’

  In one motion he had divested himself of his stock and his jacket. His shirt gaped open at the neck, revealing the strong column of his throat. His hands made short work of the buttons and the cloth slipped off his shoulders.

  Her breath caught in her throat. All day she had wondered if she had imagined the breadth of his shoulders or how sculpted his muscles were, but now she saw that one brief early-morning glimpse had not been enough. She feasted her eyes on him and the way his golden skin was covered in a light dusting of dark hair, hair that pointed downwards and disappeared into his cream trousers.

  A knowing smile crossed his face. She turned her head, ashamed. Perhaps such things were done at night, under the covers, but she wanted to see.

  ‘You may look at me, if I can look at you.’ He touched her chin and brought it back so her gaze went to the warm pools of his eyes.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Very pretty, but unnecessary.’ He ran a hand along the lace, his fingers skimming the cloth and delicately stroking the swell underneath, a slow, almost lazy, touch, but one that did strange things to her insides. Instantly her breast responded to the touch, her nipples becoming tight buds, straining forwards, and a primitive longing pulsed through her.

  Her hand reached out and touched his silken hair as he rained open-mouthed kisses down her throat. She held him against her skin. His lips went over the shift and circled the outline of her nipples. Circled and tugged, making the cloth wet. A gasp was torn from her throat.

  ‘You seem to have become a bit wet. I should not want you to catch a chill.’

  Her nipples were a dusky pink between the now translucent cloth. The cloth rubbed against her, making her breasts seem full and aching, and she knew that she wanted to feel his mouth on her. With trembling fingers, she raised her arms and allowed him to take the chemise off.

  ‘I should not want you to catch cold. All alone in that big bed.’ He picked her up and set her down on the bed. The faint traces of lavender and starch rose up to meet her, enveloped her in their softness. He ran a hand over her curves. ‘May I join you?’

  Incapable of speech, she could only nod.

  The bed dipped slightly and his full length came on top of her. Warming her. Pressing her down into the lavender-scented sheets.

  His mouth reclaimed hers and this time it demanded a response. A response she was willing to give. Desired.

  She feasted on his lips. Their tongues tangled as her body arched and her breasts were crushed against his naked chest. Every piece of her burst into flames, molten to his touch.

  Remade.

  His fingers slipped down her body until they reached the apex of her thighs where her dusky triangle was, dark against the cream of her skin.

  They glided into her crease, into the soft folds until they discovered the hard nub of her. Played and glided, around and round. Exquisite sensations racked her body. She lost all sense of time, all sense of everything except the touch of him against her soft hidden folds, moving along secret pathways of pleasure that she had never even guessed existed. A deep burning ache filled her. She needed something more, something to ease this burning sensation. She moaned, thrashing her head on the pillows, her hands clutching the sheet beneath her.

  Her hands pulled at his shoulders, forced him upwards and reclaimed his mouth. Their tongues entangled, but it only served to increase the need inside her, instead of ending it. Her body arched in frustration, pushed up against him. Her curves met his arousal. Felt his hardness through his clothes press into her folds, press against her. Her fingers sought his waistband. She wanted to have his skin slide against hers, to experience all of it. She gave a small cry of frustration as the first button refused to give.

  Hands captured hers. Held her wrists above her head. ‘Patience.’

  ‘Please.’ She thrashed her head
back and forth on the pillow, hardly knowing what she was asking, only knowing that she needed him.

  ‘There is no easy way,’ he said against her lips. ‘I am going to have to hurt you, but it will be only for an instant. Do you trust me?’

  She nodded slightly. But every portion of her body ached for him.

  He undid his trousers, slid them down. Kicked them to the floor. Loomed over her, golden with a sprinkling of dark hair that, like an arrow, pointed downwards. Her mouth dried as she saw the evidence of his arousal. His masculinity. She reached out a finger and tentatively touched. Velvety hard. Burning silk over iron. She wanted to hold him and caress him. Explore his tantalising flesh.

  His hand stopped her quest. ‘Later.’

  She withdrew her hand, chastened. She had been too bold. She swallowed hard, hating her desire and these sensations that were sweeping through her. She had done it wrong. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Sometimes, I forget how truly innocent you are.’ His hand trapped hers and raised it to his lips. His mouth suckled each finger. ‘I want to make this as gentle as possible.’

  ‘You make no sense.’

  ‘I will.’

  He nudged apart her thighs, positioned himself and she felt a burning pain inside for an instant as her body opened up and allowed the length of him to enter. He lay there for a moment, inside her, joined together. His fingers slid over her skin, tracing the outline of her eyes, her nose, her mouth.

  ‘It couldn’t be helped. Your maidenhead had to be breached.’ His breath tickled her ear.

  ‘Will the pain get better?’

  ‘Yes.’ He recaptured her lips, plundering and restarted the fire that flickered inside her.

  The aching deep within began again and she lifted her hips, wanting to be closer.

  He appeared to understand and together they began to move, faster and faster until she felt as if she were falling. She clamped her mouth shut and stifled a scream. Tried desperately to hang on to her sanity. Failed.

  ‘Did I hurt you much?’ Tristan asked as he rolled off her, spent from his exertions. He watched her face for any sign of hidden pain. He’d held out as long as he’d dared, hoping against hope. Then his own desire had overtaken him. Now he looked at her candlelit blue eyes, searched them and saw the smouldering remains of passion.

  ‘A bit at the start.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘But later it was lovely.’

  He pressed his lips to her temple. An exultation filled him. He had done the right thing. He would get the sort of wife he had dreamt of. His experiment was working. Once he was sure, he would let her know the whole truth.

  ‘It will be better next time, I promise.’

  ‘And you always keep your promises.’

  His answer was to draw her back into his arms and to stop her laughter with a kiss. Soon, soon, he would confess the truth, but he wanted to enjoy this time with her. He wanted to enjoy her innocence.

  And nothing was going to stop him.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Why didn’t you want to tell me who that portrait was? Why did you deliberately change the subject?’ Lottie asked as the morning sun peeped through the curtains. She had spent the better part of an hour awake, listening to the steady sound of Tristan sleeping next to her, going over things in her mind and one piece she could not place was the portrait. Why would anyone leave a ruined portrait on the wall?

  ‘It wasn’t important,’ came Tristan’s sleep-laced voice. ‘It still isn’t. Ancient history, best forgotten. Nothing to do with you or us.’

  Lottie brought her knees up to her chest and peeped at Tristan through a curtain of hair. ‘I would like to know.’

  His finger flicked her hair back, stroked her cheek and sent pulses of sensation coursing through her. ‘It is of my uncle’s former wife. You won’t see it again.’

  ‘Who destroyed it? Your uncle?’ Lottie wriggled out of his embrace and sat facing him. ‘It looks to be an expensive portrait.’

  ‘You are refusing to be distracted this morning.’ His hand encircled her shoulder and pulled her firmly back against him.

  ‘I should have asked last night, but other things occupied my mind.’ She turned her face towards the pillow, rather than face Tristan. Somehow even speaking about what had passed between them seemed wicked.

  ‘My uncle.’ Tristan gave a great sigh. ‘It was a portrait of his wife. He owned it. You would have to ask him exactly what went through his mind. I had left.’

  ‘But why did he slash it? There must have been a reason.’

  ‘You have been reading too many novels.’

  ‘It is Cousin Frances who reads them.’ Lottie propped herself on her elbow and regarded his face. A dimple showed in the corner of his mouth, which showed he was teasing her. Lottie relaxed slightly, pleased that they had reached a point where they could tease each other. ‘I simply listened to her graphic tales and this…this house could easily be in one. It has that sort of atmosphere.’

  ‘Does it indeed?’

  ‘Oh, positively, Cousin Frances will remark on it at once when she comes…if she comes,’ Lottie quickly amended. ‘But how could anyone leave a house like this one to rack and ruin? It must have been well loved once.’

  ‘Too well. My father and mother adored the house, but my father and uncle did not get on. They left when my grandfather died and went to live near Haydon Bridge.’

  ‘You are seeking to distract me with your parents.’ Lottie clasped her hands about her knees. ‘Why would your uncle leave it like this?’

  Tristan sat up and regarded Lottie’s rosebud mouth and golden hair streaming out over the pillow. He wrapped his hands about his knees and glanced over at his wife. How much should he tell her? How much did she need to know?

  ‘I believe my uncle never came to this house after his wife abandoned him or so Mrs Elton wrote. We were completely estranged by that point.’

  ‘How sad. He must have been very upset when she left. He must have loved her very much.’

  ‘The only thing my uncle loved was money—the getting and acquiring of objects. He was also devoted to preserving the dignity of the Dyvelston name, keeping it out of the scandal sheets.’ Tristan’s lips twitched. ‘There, he failed.’

  ‘But his wife. What did he feel for her?’

  ‘She was simply a living and breathing object, a trophy in his old age.’

  ‘Much as Sir Geoffrey planned for me.’ Lottie brought her knees up to her chest and hid behind a curtain of hair.

  ‘I had not given it much consideration. Sir Geoffrey did not marry you. I did.’

  Tristan hoped that would be the end. He had no wish to dredge up old memories about his youthful indiscretions.

  ‘And what she was like—your aunt?’ she asked from behind her hair. ‘When I meet the neighbours, they are all bound to know and there will be things alluded to. Mrs Foster said something. It will be better if you tell me first.’

  ‘Mrs Foster was an irritant in more ways than one,’ Tristan growled. ‘I should never have let you accept that lift. I should have known better than to let you speak to her.’

  ‘You are trying to change the subject. Your aunt, not people I might meet on the parliamentary. You must have known her.’

  Tristan collapsed back against the pillows and stared up at the bed hangings. How to explain about the beautiful, elusive, treacherous Suzanne? ‘Beautiful, charming, much younger than my uncle. Last seen with an Italian count.’

  Lottie laughed as she caught his hand and pressed it to her cheek. ‘You seem to know a lot of women who were last seen with an Italian count.’

  He withdrew his hand. ‘Because they were one and the same.’

  ‘You ran off with your aunt. Is it any wonder you are considered to be scandalous?’ Lottie sat up, and allowed the sheet to fall to the floor unheeded.

  ‘Hush, Lottie. It happened over ten years ago.’ Tristan reached over and pulled her firmly back into his arms. ‘It is nothing that concerns you. It was some
thing between my uncle and me. Poor fool that I was—I did not understand how I was used. Both by my uncle and his wife. I was young, naive and totally convinced of my superiority and virility.’

  Lottie wriggled out of his embrace and stared at him. ‘Your aunt, Tristan? How could you? She must have been much older than you.’

  ‘I never said that I was perfect, Lottie. You knew I had a scandalous past when we met.’ Tristan passed his hand over his eyes. He was not ready for this conversation. There were some parts of his life that he had no desire to revisit. ‘At the time, it seemed wildly romantic. She was a year old than me and much more worldly. I never considered her to be my aunt, only my uncle’s wife. My uncle was aware of the fascination she held for me.’ A muscle jumped in Tristan’s jaw. ‘He encouraged it in the beginning.’

  ‘And he did nothing to prevent it?’ Her eyes became wide with amazement.

  ‘It is possible that my uncle felt it the best way to get a child, one with Dyvelston blood rather than one from some other family. We never discussed it. I am sorry to say that I was not terribly discreet. In my defence, I was young and blind in my arrogance.’

  ‘How did it end?’

  ‘Fate intervened in the shape of a disputed card game, a duel and Suzanne, his wife, elected to come with me to the Continent.’ Tristan gave a bitter laugh. ‘My uncle did not pursue us. I think he was pleased to be rid of her and her desire for pretty things. They had tired of each other and I was her plaything.’

  ‘But that…that is monstrous… How could anyone be so cruel?’

  ‘It was what my uncle was like. He wanted at all costs to have a son. It became his obsession.’ Tristan’s face was shadowed and Lottie was certain there was much he was keeping hidden. ‘It is not a time I am proud of, Lottie, but it helped shape me.’

  ‘But he did that to the portrait. He destroyed her portrait and he kept it hanging on the wall…for you to find.’