“I bet they don’t go well with corsets,” she speculated.
“I bet many ladies should give them a try.”
She put the tip of her fan to his chest. “Corsets are such a bother.”
“Most men would agree.”
“Putting modistes world-wide out of business.”
“You could try mine on,” he offered with a grin.
“Darling, your hips and mine?” She shook her head. “Your pants would never fit.”
He bent near and whispered, “We’re meant to fit in more exciting ways.”
She blushed as brightly as holly berries. “Just for that, I will show you.”
“I hold you to it, Madam.”
”Later!” She whipped her fan to a high breeze, then tipped her head toward the other side of the room, far away from him. “Later.”
* * *
Theo climbed the back stairs from the library, torn between anxiety and elation. All day long, he’d wandered in a daze of sexual heat. Having Penn was such an elixir that he doubted he was an older man of thirty-one! He’d never spent a night like he had with her last night. Not with anyone so willing, so responsive, so effervescent in the throes of passion. He knew, too, he was unique. How many men achieved the dream he had at this party? Few. So few. He knew at least a dozen men, lonely and forlorn or disgusted with the lack of sexual joy they shared with their wives.
He knocked on her door, determined never again to be one of them.
She pulled it open. Already wrapped in a robe, this of gleaming white satin, she sank into his embrace.
Beneath the supple fabric, he could tell that she wore nothing. Dear god. Nothing. He was a randy boy, greedy too. Walking her backward toward her bedroom, he spoke on her lips. “Did you order orange marmalade tonight?”
She sputtered in laughter, curled her fingers around the collar of his banyan and led him on. “No.”
“A shame. I loved the taste.”
She paused at the side of her bed, her dark brown eyes alight with mischief. “Might you like strawberry instead?”
He untied the sash at her waist and pushed the liquid fabric to the carpet. He ran his hands down her shoulders, her hands, her buttocks and up to her breasts. He regarded how they fit snuggly into the palms of his hands and how her large rosy nipples blossomed into tight hard buds. He pinched both between his thumbs and forefingers. She writhed beautifully. “I’ll try it,” he whispered and bit her earlobe, “afterward.”
Then he urged her back to the bed, her knees bent at the edge of the mattress. She was open to him, her core stunningly hot pink and glistening, ready for him. He took himself in hand and ran his nails down the center of her, from throat to delicate curly blonde hair. She undulated, her arms up to urge him down. But he was intent on serving her, entering her and oh, yes, enjoying her hot wet capture of his body. This time, he came with a fury that surprised him—and she came with him, loud and long in her culmination.
God in heaven, but he loved her.
He stood, marveling that he had emptied his love into her, but she had filled him with a euphoria he didn’t know how to contain.
She examined him, languid and appreciative. Then she slithered backward on the bed and beckoned him to join her. They wound together then, cocooned in the covers and tangled in each other.
“I have brandy as well as strawberry marmalade. Would you like a glass?”
He cupped her cheek and kissed her. “I would. You stay here and keep warm. I’ll get it.”
Naked, he padded to her sitting room where she’d had a tray set out for them. As he returned, one glass in hand, he gave it to her and reached down for his robe.
With an inquisitive tilt of her head, she watched him don his robe. She took his cue and sat upright, plumping the pillows behind her and placing the glass aside on the nearby table. Sitting back, she took the sheets with her to cover her bosom.
He took the large upholstered chair near her fire and considered how lovely she was in firelight or any light. “I want you to know what this means to me.” He opened his palm and indicated their enjoyment of each other on her bed.
“You’ve given yourself to me with such generosity that I am overwhelmed.”
She toyed with a smile. “You don’t want me to stop, do you?”
“Never.” Lord above, did he ever mean that!
“Well then. What’s on your mind, Theo?” She settled back into the covers like a child who eagerly awaited story-time.
“I’ve never known a woman who could do that.”
She blushed. “I didn’t plan that. What we’ve done here seemed so…natural. I didn’t think about it beyond…beyond wanting you.”
“And now I cannot think beyond that, either.”
“Well! I would say that’s a good thing, wouldn’t you?” She was so gay about it, she summoned the same kind of response in him.
He considered the fire for a moment. “You don’t wish to speak about your marriages. I will be frank and tell you I wish I knew more. But if you will not say, then I will accept it.”
She jutted out her chin, defiance in every line of her face. “Marriage is an option for a woman, true. For one of my rank, there are few others. A position, perhaps? Governess, lady’s companion. Or shop girl. The first man I married, I wed because I was told to do so. I was without a dowry sizable enough to attract…many.” She swallowed with difficulty. “Luckily, I enjoy people, books, the theater—and men. I have some good looks.”
“Penn, I did not lead you to this topic intending to make you angry.”
“I’m not angry with you. No. Not you. But the world! Society’s rules. When can a woman become capable of choosing her own life? What is all that education for if not to earn as well as any man? Why not, eh?”
He hated himself for broaching the subject.
She mellowed. “I married three men. Not because I loved them. But because they were…pleasant. When each one died, I was devastated by the loss. They were…my friends. I wanted them to live long and prosperous lives. But each one died. Astonishing, that. I wondered—still do—if I had loved them more, might they still be alive?”
He startled. She voiced his own thoughts about his own deceased spouses. Yet her self-ridicule was too harsh and he had to comfort her. “My sweet, you are not to blame for their passing.”
“No. No, of course not. That’s silliness, isn’t it?” She picked at the bed covers. “Their deaths were the normal cycle of life. We can explain their illnesses with that, can’t we? But then how do we explain what I did?”
“Penn—”
“I married each one in turn. I conformed to society’s rules. I took no position, I worked no shop. I took three men in matrimony. That makes me acceptable, wise and prudent, but it does not make me proud.”
“I am proud of you,” he declared. “You carried on. Did what you could.”
“And you?” Her tone was half question, half accusation. “Did you do what you could?”
“I was wrong not to marry you. I was wrong to accept what my father thought my affection was. I was wrong to take my first wife. She was not who she seemed. And the second—”
“Ohhhh, stop!” She cried, threw the covers back and jumped naked from the bed. Hands over her face, she ran toward the screen in the corner. Sobbing, she tried to burrow into the wall.
He was out of his chair, his hands around her shoulders, his lips buried in her fragrant hair. “Please don’t cry, my darling. Please don’t. All that is over now.”
She spun in his arms, tears tracking down her cheeks. “You will not tell me about your wives.”
He nodded, once, bewildered. Did she not wish to know his past experience? Why he wanted her? Why he had always wanted her? “Very well.”
“I never want to learn. Not one word. Not how you cared for them. They for you. What they did. Or didn’t. I do not want to know who they were. And do you know why?”
He could guess, but he remained silent and let her go on.
She breathed in big gulps of air. “Because I envied them. They were rich and young and—yes—fertile. And yours. They were your partners, your mates, your lovers. And I was not. Could never be. Never. And when I would see them in a shop or read about them in a newspaper or even allow myself to think of them, I was blind with jealousy. They were yours and I wanted to be.”
Without any words to soothe her wounds, he cupped her cheeks and wiped her tears with his thumbs. Her anger and her sorrow over his marriages were a mirror to his own. He would not tell her that. It was not the moment for such confessions. The right moment might not ever come.
Instead he circled his arms around her shaking body and brought it against his own. Stroking her back, he calmed her, then lifted her in his arms and took her back to their bed. There in sweet kisses and a thousand caresses, he attempted to declare his own sorrow for his past mistakes. And as he entered her warm and welcoming body once more, she whispered how she loved him.
“I have,” she said against his lips, “from the first instant I looked at you.”
For tonight, her confession was all he needed to give him encouragement for the morrow.
* * *
She awoke hours later, tangled up in him. His arms. His legs. His heart. She had known erotic fulfillment with one of her husbands, but nothing could ever match the ecstasy of these hours in Theo’s embrace. He was kind, he was careful, he was thorough. He was enchanting merely being himself. Merely being in love with her.
She blinked at the one guttering candle and marked the soft shadows in the room. It was Christmas morning and she’d received the best gift she never thought possible. She had Theo in her bed. What he had known with either of his wives, or what perhaps he’d learned with any other woman he might have coupled with in his youth, had been lavished on her. Without hesitation and filled with delights she’d never known.
She gazed upon him. His head on her pillow, his glorious pale blond hair ruffled against the lace, the sight of him tore her heart. He was so handsome with his firm jaw, the sharp line of his nose and his masculine lips that had touched her in secret places in her core and in her heart. He was that rare man who could declare himself wrong. He could also attempt to correct his error.
But his efforts would be in vain.
In twelve years, not much had changed about her. She was still very much the same person. Older, true. Wiser, some. But still no one by many standards of the society in which she lived. She was the widow of a minor noble. She was still marginally able to support herself. Her widow’s portion from her last husband had been smaller than the previous. She sighed.
Her little house on the edge of Mayfair was big enough for her. Tidy, appropriately furnished, good enough to receive her friends for tea. Three hundred a year was just enough for her to hire a lady’s maid, a cook and a butler who served as a man-of-all-work. Her lady’s maid often lit the fires and cleaned the grates in her house. Her cook also did her own grocer’s shopping and scullery cleaning. Penn was frugal, careful. It was tiring.
These hours with Theo had lifted her spirits up and out of all that. This had been the most fun she’d had in years. Long, dull years.
Yes, she was risqué to make love with him. She was being immoral to take him to her bed, but that she did not care about. She never had breached the rules of God and man before in any way. If He wished to punish her for this respite, then He surely was cruel. She’d argue that point with Him in church the next time she took herself there for consolation.
However, she also understood His largesse. She did believe He had some. And this dalliance with Theo was what she needed, what she would take to her dreary future.
He curled a muscular arm around her and drew her against him. “You look sad. Tell me why.”
She shook off her blue thoughts in favor of smiling at her lover. “It’s cold. I much prefer summertime. Don’t you?”
He sent her a look that said he knew she was prevaricating. But he stroked her arm, lifted her chin and said, “May I make love to you on this Christmas morning?”
“You could give me no finer gift,” she told him truly.
* * *
He had another gift for her. One he’d brought with him from home, hoping, praying she would be here and accept it. But he’d save that for later, after he assured himself of her willingness to marry him.
He knew her, despite years of separation. Knew her well. And he was painfully aware that she held back a portion of herself. Not her heart. Not her body. But some other aspect he could not name. Until he learned it, he would not press her.
For to press her meant she’d run from him.
And that he could not bear.
Not now.
Not after this…this rapture he had shared with her.
So he kissed her, and petted her, fondled her gorgeous breasts and sank himself into the wet folds of her giving body. If a man persuaded a woman he adored to marry him this way with all the powers of his lips and tongue and hands and cock, could she refuse him? After such careful loving, how could she not surrender soul and heart and all desire?
God knew, he was as bound to her as ever he’d been. His spirit had loved her. His body had yearned for her. But now, buried deep inside her, hearing her sighs of delight, her cries of completion, how could he ever let her go?
But when his pulse returned to a normal beat, faint sun streamed into her window. He rose and looked out upon a snowfall. Large flakes, they’d make quite a lovely Christmas panorama. He had to leave her rooms before others were up. With a sigh, he donned his banyan.
At her door, she rushed to him. He bent to peck her on the cheek and she pulled back.
“We must be more careful,” she said with a small sad smile. “Lady Bridgewater has seen us. Others—”
“Lady Bridgewater was a dear friend of my mother’s. I doubt she would say a word against me. As for others, I think we may not be the only ones who have taken advantage of the arrangements.”
“That doesn’t excuse us. Nor does it mean others won’t mention what they suspect.”
Her words sent a chime of fear through him. “Do you say you will no longer receive me?”
She regarded her hands.
He stepped against her. She was still sans all clothing, so natural in his arms. Pulling her nearer, he kissed her hair, her eyelids, her cheeks.
She was stiff, cold.
Alarmed at her change in attitude, he said, “I’ll return tonight. Happy Christmas, my darling.”
When she looked up, she had tears in her eyes. “I’ve never had a lover, Theo. No one but my husbands.”
“Sweetheart, I know.” He would have kissed her again.
But she shook her head. “I have a good reputation.”
Never had there been a word of scandal about her. “My darling, if you are worried that you will get with child—”
She shot backward. “No.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“I’m not.”
“Nor should you be,” he assured her, “because—”
“I won’t be.”
“Penn, what is this? What’s wrong?”
“Please leave.”
“After all that we’ve been to—”
She stepped around him and pulled open the door. “Please go. Quickly.”
In the hall, the Marsden butler Simms was closing a bedroom door far down the hall. He carried his shoes. He wore his own banyan. And his hair was mussed. His gaze met Theo’s but neither man acknowledged the other.
For propriety’s sake, Theo stepped out into the hall.
And Penn shut the door upon him with a snap.
“What in hell?” he murmured to himself.
Simms passed him, silent.
Theo knocked gently on her door.
She did not open.
Very well. He could not stand here, begging to be let in. He turned aside and headed for the small staircase down to the library.
There he fo
und a chair, perplexed. Fearful. He needed a plan. A plan to learn what shook her. Today, he’d find a way to talk to her privately. Bring her here or…anywhere. Breakfast. Church. Afternoon card games. None of it seemed promising. But he’d find an opportunity.
He heard footsteps on the wooden stairs.
“Theo!” She ran toward him, her morning robe clutched at her throat. “Theo. I’m sorry. That was unkind.”
He did not rise, but met her apology with frankness. “Tell me what else it was.”
When she did not immediately respond, he asked, “Reputation? Boredom? Rejection?”
“Theo, no. None of that.”
“Well then?” He knew how to demand what he wanted. Of her, he would never require anything but her love. But right now, he needed honesty.
“There is no use for us to dance around the issue.”
Someone in the house was yelling. A most untoward sound on Christmas morning.
Theo directed his attention back to Penn.
“And what issue,” he asked with the harsh reality of the years apart from her returning to cloud his mind, “is that?”
“I will not become pregnant.”
In her words, he heard sorrow…and anger.
“Why not?” She sounded as if it were a choice. They’d made love countless times. Was she implying she would not allow herself to become pregnant? He’d seen no evidence of that. And most women, as he understood things, knew little of the methods doxies used to prevent conception. And so he was befuddled by her anger. And her sense of independence. Was it that he’d missed? Her fury at women’s choices? “Why?”
“Because, Theo,” she raised her voice and waved her arms, “I can’t!”
“You think you are—?”
“Incapable! Yes! Don’t you see? I cannot bear children. I am barren!”
Irrelevant to his love for her! He grew as angry as she. “I don’t care!”
“Of course you do! You are bred to care. Taught to need an heir. Do not tell me you’re not!”
Shouting and people running down the halls and stairs alerted them both to rising chaos.
The Marquess's Final Fling: Christmas Belles, Book #4 Page 5