The Devil You Know

by Liz Carlyle

  But it did not seem like the sort of sex that a man like him had been meant to have. He opened his eyes and slid his palms down her inner thighs. Her skin was golden in the light, her eyes wide with surprise. He lowered himself, delicately touching his tongue to her most intimate place, and Frederica cried out softly. Her hand lifted, fluttered uncertainly, and he captured it, entwining their fingers and drawing her hand to her belly as he listened to the low, hungry sounds she made.

  Soon she was panting, almost thrashing. With the strength of his arm, he forced her body to yield, forced her bare buttocks hard against the counterpane, stilling her to his mouth. He was surprised at the swiftness of her response. She was a truly sensual creature, his delicate, almost fragile wife. He could feel her quicken, could feel her hips fight to rise upward.

  But he wanted to pleasure her, long and hard, and not because he wanted to prove himself but because there was a new and sudden joy in it. Still, it was all too apparent that Frederica was not going to last. He let go of her hand and slid his fingers around her thigh. She shivered again and begged him for something in a low, raspy whisper. In response, he slid two fingers inside her. Her head went back, her whole body arching, and she cried again, like a wounded animal, a quiet wail of desperation.

  There was no holding her back. Frederica’s hands came down, one clutching her own thigh, the other frantically fisting in his hair. With one last perfect stroke, he touched her with his tongue again, and she shattered. He let her body rise to his mouth, reveling in the tremors which rocked her. He felt wave after wave roll through her, and when the last shudder died and she was left sobbing, he rose up and dragged his body over hers.

  Was she really crying?

  Oh, Christ Jesus. Tears he could not bear, and Bentley could see one leaking from her eye onto her temple. Worse, she was gazing at him with an expression which went far beyond appreciation and looked perilously close to utter adoration. Good Lord, he did not deserve that. Not tears, and surely not adoration. A fragment of memory, a warning—something Amherst had said in the church—came back to him. The dreadful day of judgment, when all secrets of the heart shall be disclosed. Oh, she would not look at him then with eyes so warm and melting, nor would she offer her embrace so easily. But, for now, her arms were still open, and his name was on her lips.

  And so he took his cock in one hand, and, with the other, he opened her, drawing back the warm flesh. He considered it but a moment, could not wait, then shoved himself deep on one true stroke. Frederica cried out, but he knew instinctively it was from pleasure, not shock. She rose beneath him, arching to him again, and he heard himself begging her for what he did not want.

  “Love me,” he whispered, throwing back his head. “Oh, Freddie, love me. Please.”

  Love me. His words were like magic to Frederica’s ears. Bentley looked so unexpectedly vulnerable. She held him, melting her body to his, matching their motions, and offering up her pleasures, guided by little more than instinct and eagerness. He moved inside her slowly, tutoring her with every stroke, his eyes shut tight, his strong arms trembling. In response, she slid her hands down and over the taut muscles of his buttocks and heard his groan of pleasure.

  Her eyes drank him in. She watched the tendons of his throat cord and tighten and the sweat of his brow bead on his face as he thrust himself inside her. When it trickled down his neck to pool in the hollow near his collarbone, she delicately touched her tongue to it, and, atop her, her husband’s whole body shook. Again and again, he whispered her name, his voice hoarse and hungry. She rose to meet him, instinctively tightening herself about his manhood and thrilling to the emotions, both pleasure and pain, which contorted his face.

  And then the long, heated strokes of his body began to inflame her. Frederica let the rhythm take hold, let it drive her hips upward to meet him. Greedily, she gave herself over to him, to the bliss she sensed dangling just beyond her reach. Bentley’s eyes flew open, and he knew. A black curtain of hair shadowed his face now, and still he did not break his cadence. Again and again, he drove into her, his lean body drenched with sweat, tempting and taunting her with the promise of pleasure renewed. She ached, oh, how she ached. For this. For him. For her husband.

  He stroked her again, high and deep, harder and harder, until Frederica cried out. Her body melted, turned to lava, and began to flow around him. He clutched her shoulders with his hands and pounded himself into her. And then he cried out, a low, soft sound of anguish. Frederica felt the hot rush of seed spurt into her, again and again, until their passion was spent and his chest heaved with the effort of it.

  He fell against her, gasping for breath. “Freddie,” he finally murmured, collapsing fully on top of her. “Oh, my God.”

  Then she felt a moment of alarm shoot through him. Abruptly, he rolled to one side, taking her with him. His gaze held hers, soft in the dying light. “The baby,” he whispered. “We shouldn’t…? ”

  Out of sheer exhaustion, Frederica fell onto her back. “No.” Her voice was certain. “No, Bentley, that definitely does not hurt the baby.”

  “No?” he asked tentatively. “Are you sure?”

  Frederica managed a weak smile. “Absolutely.”

  He kissed her once more, and then, without another word, Bentley curled his body around hers, rested his hand on her belly, and promptly went to sleep.

  It was some time later—days later, it felt—that Frederica was roused by a light knock at the door.

  “Mr. B.?” came a cheerful Cockney voice. “Mr. B.? Move sharplike, ducks. I’ve got yer ’ot water ’ere, and Mrs. Naffles is taking yer apple tart out ’er the oven.”

  The following morning, Bentley awoke to a remarkable realization. He’d slept through the night, something he’d not done at Chalcote in better than fifteen years. Pushing up onto one elbow, he stared through a shock of hair to see a pale sliver of sunlight cutting through the draperies, draperies he vaguely remembered pulling shut after dinner last night.

  A faint noise caught his ear. With a little grunt, he rolled over to see Freddie stifling a yawn and staring at him with a soft, contented gaze. For a moment, it was as if his heart stopped. A flood of tenderness rolled over him, a most extraordinary sensation. And not an unpleasant one. Yet in some ways, it was more disconcerting than the rush of emotion he’d felt last night making love to her. Good Lord. This just got worse and worse.

  To cover his bewilderment, Bentley scrubbed a hand down his face. “Morning.”

  “Good morning.” She reached out to thread her fingers through his hair. “Sleep well?”

  “Like a dead man,” he laughed, rolling toward her. “I think I can get used to this, Freddie love.”

  She laughed. “Used to what?”

  He nuzzled his face against her neck. “Waking up to find you in my bed.”

  Freddie smiled and stretched her lithe body like a cat. “Can you indeed?”

  “Hmm, let me be sure.” Bentley took her by one shoulder, pushed her away a little, and let his eyes drift over her face. “Oh, yes, you make a ravishing sight first thing in the morning. Devilish convenient in a marriage, I’d say. Some women, you know, don’t wear so well.”

  Freddie gave him a sly grin. “Had some rude awakenings, have you?”

  Bentley winced. “Aye, a few,” he admitted. “But none I’d married, thank God.”

  She laughed, and, in response, he threw one arm around her, rolling onto his back and dragging her into the crook of his arm. Heaven help him, she fit perfectly there, too. He saw that the coverlet had slipped down to reveal the curve of her breasts, round and delicate beneath her nightdress, and the feeling of tenderness surged anew. To push the feeling away, he ran one hand beneath the covers and stroked her belly. “Freddie love, are you eating enough?” he mused. “Oughtn’t you be getting fat or something?”

  Freddie’s lips formed a little pout. “Evie says I’ll be as big as a house by Martinmas,” she said. “Perhaps I won’t look so attractive then.”

>   Impulsively, he captured her lips with his and kissed her hard. “You’ll be even more so,” he whispered, the fervency in his voice surprising even him. He settled his hand squarely over her womb. “Yes, more beautiful, Freddie. You’ll be lush and womanly, round with my child. How could a man not find that attractive?” His lips moved over her face, sprinkling little kisses. “Ah, you’ll be so pretty I won’t be able to bear it. You’ll have to beat me away with the hearth broom.”

  She erupted with laughter then, and, impulsively, he tossed the covers back, then set his lips where his hand had been. Through the thin fabric of her nightdress, he could smell the heat of her skin and a hint of some flowery soap. “Do you hear that, sweet pea?” he said into her navel. “Your mother will be so irresistible, and your father so greedy, you can expect months of jiggling and jostling.”

  Frederica was still laughing, her head thrown back in the pillow. She was trying to drag him back up again, and eventually he relented. “Sweet pea?” she echoed.

  “Well, it is a girl, you know,” he warned, settling his head on her shoulder. “I can tell.”

  Frederica shook her head. “No, it’s a boy,” she retorted. “Winnie has already said so.”

  “Oh, Winnie has said so? And fatherly instinct counts for nothing, eh?”

  “That’s because you don’t have Winnie’s special stone,” she said with a wink. “It’s foolproof.”

  Bentley cocked one brow. “Oh, I’ve got some special stones,” he said with a suggestive tilt of his head. “Want to see ’em?”

  He could see Freddie struggling to keep a straight face. “No, this is a magical stone on a string,” she insisted, pinching something imaginary between her fingers and waving it over her stomach. “A black onyx she bought from a witch in Florence. You suspend it over the mother’s womb on the new moon, and if the babe is a girl, the stone spins clockwise. If a boy, counterclockwise. It was never wrong with Evie.”

  “Well, it’s wrong this time,” he muttered, burying his face against his wife’s neck and giving her a little nip.

  “Ouch!” said Freddie. “Do you want a daughter so badly? Don’t men always want sons?”

  Beside her, Bentley shrugged. “Perhaps if they have a title to pass on,” he mused. “But I don’t, and I think little girls are pretty, and they smell better than boys. I remember quite fondly Ariane as a child. And then there are Madeline and Emmie—not to mention Anaïs, my sister’s girl.”

  Freddie settled back into her pillows. “I just think you are charmed by anything remotely female, and they are equally charmed by you,” she said. “But I say that boys have an easier time of it in this world. They have options. Opportunities in life to do and be what they wish.”

  Bentley lifted his head and looked at her quite seriously. “Our daughter will have options and opportunities,” he vowed. “I’ll make sure of it. Why are you so worried, Freddie?”

  Frederica shrugged and began to pick absently at the hem of the coverlet. “Oh, I daresay I’m just being foolish,” she softly admitted. “I suppose I’m speaking more of myself than my child.” She lifted her eyes to meet Bentley’s, her gaze suddenly steady and serious. “But whatever our child’s sex, Bentley, and whatever comes of this marriage, I do know that my child will walk an easier path through life than I. I haven’t thanked you for that, and I should have.”

  Bentley felt his chest grow tight with some unexpected emotion. “I’m no selfless saint, Freddie,” he said quietly. “Don’t make me out one. I had my own reasons for marrying you.”

  For a long moment, she was silent, and then, inexplicably, Freddie turned the subject. “I enjoyed meeting your family yesterday,” she said. “I especially liked your brother. We had such a lovely chat last night at dinner.”

  “Oh, I noticed Cam’s attentiveness,” said Bentley coolly. Her talk of marriage had struck a painful chord in his heart, but he liked this topic little better.

  Freddie shot him a probing look. “At first, I feared he disapproved of our marriage,” she continued. “Did you not think him a little distant during tea yesterday? But Helene said he was merely concerned.”

  “Aye, Cam’s a great one for concerning himself with other people’s business,” Bentley muttered. “And never you mind whether he approves or not. We’ll never be dependent on his charity.”

  Freddie looked at him in mild surprise. “Why, I never dreamt we were,” she said softly. “What are you talking about?”

  Bentley frowned up at the ceiling. “Forget it.”

  Freddie shook her head. “I’m not sure I should,” she persisted. “The tension at tea was like shoe leather, Bentley. And things improved little during dinner. You seem not to like your brother. And he seems not to trust you.”

  “Aye, well, you’ve the right of that last part.”

  Freddie was silent for a moment, then she sighed. “Helene said the two of you sometimes don’t get along.” She stroked a soothing hand through his hair. “How may I help, Bentley?”

  By staying the hell out of it, he wanted to snap. But he knew better. In her delicate state, that might cause her to cry, and God only knew what that might make him do. Fling himself at his brother’s feet, kiss his boots, and beg forgiveness, most likely. Besides, her tears notwithstanding, Freddie just wasn’t the type to stay out of trouble or blindly take orders. At Chatham, the chit had been allowed—no, taught—to debate, question, and think. She’d likely crossed her fingers during the word obey in their marriage vows.

  “I just want us always to be close to our families,” she resumed, threading her fingers through his and giving his hand a little squeeze. “It is important to me. And to our child.”

  Bentley gave a bitter laugh. “Playing peacemaker, Freddie?” he asked, his voice deceptively light. “Don’t. My troubles with Cam needn’t concern you.”

  Freddie, however, was gently insistent. “But of course they concern me, Bentley,” she said. “I am your wife now. We’re going to build a family together, and I am just trying to understand your—”

  Bentley cut her off with another bark of laughter. “Don’t bother!” he said, shoving violently at his pillow. “I don’t even understand myself half the time.”

  “Bentley, I won’t be shut out of your life.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, Freddie!” he interjected, sitting abruptly up in bed. “This is our wedding trip. Why fret over things that don’t matter?”

  “Nothing matters more than family, Bentley.” Freddie’s tone was suddenly adamant. “To me, family unity is the most important thing, to be preserved before all else—and that includes one’s pride. Should I have made my feelings clearer on that point before we wed?”

  “Aw, Freddie, it’s awfully bloody early in the morning for a high dudgeon!”

  But she continued, her voice gentle but persistent. “No, you must listen to me, Bentley,” she answered. “You see, I had no family. Not until Evie took me in. You cannot imagine how frightening that is. You have all this—” Here, she paused to make a sweeping gesture. “Caring relatives, this wonderful home, and an ancient heritage. And you aren’t treasuring it, Bentley. You should be, for it is a precious and rare thing. I don’t want our child to grow up in a family fraught with anger and dissension. I won’t have it.”

  “Then you married into the wrong family,” he snapped, wishing instantly to snatch back the words.

  But his bride didn’t give him the backhanded slap he deserved. Instead, she turned and set her open hand over his heart. “I married you because you convinced me that we both want what is best for this child,” she whispered. “Was I wrong?”

  For a time, Bentley just stared into the depths of the room.

  “Bentley, was I?”

  “No,” he finally whispered. “No, you weren’t wrong. You know how I feel, Freddie, about this child.”

  She left her hand on his chest, her palm warming the skin beneath. Her touch felt good and comforting. And if a man had to upend his whole life to suit
a woman, a little comfort wouldn’t go amiss, he supposed. “I know, Freddie, that you are right about Cam,” he finally admitted. “But just let me handle this in my own way and in my own time, all right? Just… don’t rush me. Cam and I, we rub along pretty well most of the time.”

  “But you will make peace with him, won’t you?” she softly pressed. “You will try, and soon, for the sake of our family?”

  Slowly, he nodded. “Yes, but this trouble between Cam and me is so old no one really remembers what started it,” he said, knowing full well that his words were at least half a lie. “I realize that’s hard for you to understand, for I know how happy your family life was at Chatham Lodge. But ours was not like that, Freddie. Cam didn’t even have a childhood, and Catherine was—”

  Just then, the doorknob rattled, as if someone were struggling awkwardly with it. Finally, the door squeaked open, and Bentley turned to see little Madeline’s head pop in. When she saw him looking down from the bed, she grinned, and slammed the door behind her. The little girl did not wait to be invited up. Instead, as she often did when Bentley was at home, Madeline darted straight for the bed, which was taller than she was.

  Good Lord. As much as he loved Madeline, he was a little sorry he’d unlocked the door and bloody glad he and Freddie had some clothes on. He hoped someone had explained the new sleeping arrangements to the children. But apparently not, for when Bentley caught Madeline’s hand to haul her up the last few inches, she crawled on top of him, saw Frederica, and froze. “Oh!” she said softly.

  Bentley chuckled. “Surprised, moppet?” he asked, lifting her up and settling her onto his knees so that they faced one another. “You remember Freddie, don’t you?”

  Madeline just stuck her thumb in her mouth and eyed her new aunt suspiciously. Gently, he leaned forward, kissed her atop the head, then eased the thumb back out again. “I brought Freddie home yesterday because she’s my wife now,” he continued, catching Madeline’s tiny hands in his. “Husbands and wives sleep in the same bed, don’t they?”