by Jo Beverley
He kissed her. “I like it when your tongue is loosened into truth.”
“I wish yours was.”
So, suddenly, under the influence of wine, they were at a serious point.
“I’m a private person, Kitty. I’m not sure I can be otherwise, but I’ll try not to keep important matters from you.”
It might be the unimportant ones that matter.
“I don’t want to be demanding.”
“You can be as demanding as you like,” he replied. “Now that we’re home.”
Heat blossomed. She might even be sweating beneath her cloak. He climbed out, helped her down, and paid the cab driver. Then he led her into the house. “Come, my wife, to bed.”
* * *
Johns was waiting up, but Braydon dismissed him and led Kitty into his bedroom.
“Have you ever played a card game where the forfeits are clothes?” he asked.
“No. And I don’t want to now.”
“Nor do I, but I propose that we undress each other, layer by layer.”
Kitty would rather rip off clothing in whatever was the most efficient way, but she could match him move for move. “A glove, then, sir.” She drew a leather glove off his right hand. His beautiful right hand, which she wanted on her skin.
“A glove,” he said in turn. Her gown had long sleeves, so her silk gloves were short and one was easily removed. Soon he could say, “Hands bared. All the better to remove other items. A shoe, madam.”
She’d expected the cloak to go next, but she raised a foot. He untied the ribbons and took off her right shoe.
She almost demanded his shoe, but why follow the pattern he set? “Greatcoat, sir.” She unbuttoned it and took it off, tossing the heavy garment over a chair.
“Stocking,” he said in turn.
Ah. “Stocking” meant “garter,” up around her thigh. She’d gone naked to bed with Marcus without a blush, but this . . . This was different.
“Raise your right foot onto the chair,” he said.
She obeyed, putting a hand on the back of the chair. He pushed up her red skirt and white petticoat until her frilled drawers were revealed, with her embroidered garter beneath her knee. He slowly, very slowly, untied it.
“I could say the garter was your item, sir,” she said, hearing her own huskiness. “But I’ll permit.”
He eased her stocking down slowly, the brush of his fingers on calf and ankle delicious torment. Her body clenched. Her breath shortened. He lifted her foot to take off the stocking, and then raised her foot higher to kiss the arch.
Despite her drawers, Kitty was aware of being open to him, and how very much she wished he’d take advantage of that. She’d joined with Marcus only when naked, but she knew from scurrilous cartoons that men need only unloose their member and her split drawers would present no serious obstacle. That was often the way with men and whores, but she wouldn’t mind being taken like a whore. In fact . . .
When he let go of her foot, she used it to push him backward toward the bed. Eyes widening, he stepped back and sat. She put down her foot, shed her cloak, and then walked to him and unbuttoned his flap. She soon had his member free, firm and rising. She raised her skirts and straddled him, filling herself, hands on his shoulders, exhaling with slow satisfaction.
But he stood with her. “Legs around me,” he commanded, thrusting her back against the wall.
And he took her like that, standing, thrusting her up again and again with a power she’d never experienced before. Squeezing her legs around him, head thrown back in passion, Kitty had to choke back cries as he drove her into hot, dark oblivion.
Chapter 33
She came to tangled on the bed, still mostly dressed, but in complete disorder.
“Not what I planned,” he mumbled, kissing around her jaw and ear. To her mouth, for a kiss as devastating as the rest.
After the kiss, after recovering, she asked, “What did you plan?”
“I’ve forgotten.”
“You?” she teased.
He half opened his eyes to meet hers. “You are a wicked woman.”
“Do you mind?”
“Only an idiot would.” Kisses later he asked, “Do we dare to undress any further?”
“Probably not,” she said, running a hand through his tousled hair. Not so beaulike now, my lord. “But I’m sure we must.”
It was many minutes before they found the strength to get off the bed.
“I can undress myself,” he said, shrugging off his jacket, “but you’ll need assistance.”
“Another unfairness between the sexes.”
“If that’s your mind, I should introduce you to the Marchioness of Arden. She’s an enthusiast for the rights of women.”
“Does she wear corsets?”
“I doubt Arden would appreciate my knowing.”
“It would be obvious from the look of her gowns.”
“Then yes, she wears corsets.”
“The rights of women go only so far.” Kitty turned her back. “Release me, husband.” As he undid buttons, she said, “Some of my everyday gowns unfasten at the front. Fine gowns could, too.”
She undid the three buttons at her cuffs herself and took off the gown, letting it drop to the floor. He set to work on the knots and laces of her stays, saying, “These garments could be simpler.”
“I have soft bodices that I can wear instead of boned ones. They fasten at the front. But a gown never looks the same.”
“It’s an ancient struggle—comfort over appearance.”
“Women have had more rational dress at times,” she said, taking off her stays and petticoat, but watching as he removed his neckcloth and then sat to take off his boots. “A medieval style, perhaps. Loose, with a girdle at the waist.”
“Like a shift?”
She was down to her shift—and one stocking. She turned to the long mirror. The shapeless white garment hung down to her shins. “A gown would be longer, but . . .” She cinched the waist with her hands. “It looks like a sack tied in the middle. What fools we women be.”
She turned back to see that he was down to his breeches with his flap unbuttoned, which in some way was more enticing than complete nakedness. “What aspects of men’s clothing would you improve?” she asked.
“Neckcloths and collars. No starch.”
She took off her stocking slowly. “They’d just flop.”
He watched, slowly releasing the waistband of his trousers. “Our fathers had soft collars or none, and soft muslin neckcloths to tie around their necks.”
“Why do men need anything about their necks?” she asked, walking over to touch the base of his throat, but leaning her body into him lower down. “Why can’t they go low necked, especially in summer?”
He trapped her hand. “I’m sure many men have asked the same. There are countries where men wear long, flowing garments and are not felt less manly for it.”
“You supposedly set the fashion, Beau Braydon. Bring it into style.”
He escaped her touch to take off his breeches and drawers.
“In Greece,” she asked, closing her hand on his cock, “did men often go naked, as in statues?”
“Do we care?”
She eyed him, smiling at the heat in his eyes and at the growing heat in herself.
Better than with Marcus.
The thought felt wrong, wicked even, but it was true. With Marcus she’d always known what to expect, and always had to be careful. This was an adventure, and he could endure anything.
“Into bed,” he commanded.
She shed her shift and climbed into bed to lie on her back in the middle, liking very much the way Braydon looked her over, head to toe, his cock rising higher.
She’d expected another fierce joining, but he lay down at her side and explored her wit
h only one hand. His touch was delicious and wandered to places never touched in that way before, but she wanted to protest the delay.
Especially when he stopped and said, “Sit up.”
Trying to anticipate the next surprise, she obeyed. He began to take pins out of her hair. She raised her hands to help him, but he said, “No. I’ll do it.”
“Damn you,” she muttered.
Though her back was to him, she could sense his smile.
All very well, sir, but your need is more urgent than mine, I’ll go odds.
She sat as still as she could as her hair was loosed, but struggled under every touch. Could he know how arousing she found it?
He fingered through her hair, his mouth playing on her shoulders, then on her back. All the way down her spine, even to the cleft at the top of her buttocks. She wanted to command him to cease, to turn and take him. She was sure he was beyond protest. But there was mysterious pleasure in this slow, torturous play.
This is seduction, she realized. Seduction of her body. It had never happened before.
She broke and turned, lying back, legs wide, pulling him to her.
He resisted, hotly smiling.
“Damned torturer!”
He trapped her hands and tormented her breasts. At first he only licked and kissed, but then he drew a nipple deep in his mouth, and a cry escaped her. She clenched her jaw to prevent another, but wanted to plead.
He released her, but instead of entering her then, he slid fingers inside her. She couldn’t help but thrust against his hand to drive to her release, and he caught her choked cries in a blinding kiss. No sooner had she crested and sunk down, gasping, sweaty, spent, than he entered her, thick and hard.
Her mouth was free and the noise she made might have been protest, but immediately she was caught up again, driven up again, with nothing to do but surrender to the pounding wave of passion even more intensely than before.
Eventually, surely much later—in fact the candles were almost spent—she opened her eyes to see he was as hot, sweaty, and disheveled as she.
“A box of fire,” she said.
“What?” he mumbled without stirring an inch.
“Nothing.”
Stroking him, she recognized that that had been a performance of sorts. It might simply be to outdo Marcus, but it probably rose from jealousy. In that case, she thought, there is something to be said for jealousy.
Relaxed in sleep, his handsomeness came close to beauty, and she wanted to stroke his lean cheek and straight nose and even the little indentations about his nostrils. She wanted to lick and kiss, but he deserved his sleep and, in truth, she felt worn out. She might be a little sore tomorrow, but she had no complaint.
None at all, for here was a man capable of many variations. Odd that she’d never imagined variety in marriage, even though she’d seen pictures. She’d separated one from the other, but there was no reason for that.
She couldn’t help wondering about other marriages. Did all couples play games with undressing, join together standing up, or drive one another to the brink? She closed the door on that. Each to their own, but her own was full of promise.
She woke in the pitch-dark night to find his arm over her, holding her close. Thinking him asleep, she curled a hand around his forearm, but he said, “Are you all right?”
“Of course. Did I wake you?”
“No.”
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Of course.”
She realized the simple questions were meaningful. They were nothing to do with the physical, except in it being intensely pleasurable. In that heat they’d forged an unexpected connection. She couldn’t call it love, whatever that was, but it was like wrought iron, folded and beaten together until it became unbreakable. He might not have expected that. Would it change anything?
The inevitable problem had slid back into her mind. They wouldn’t spend many nights together. Best not to mention it, but that wasn’t her way.
“I’ll miss you when we’re apart.”
“And I you.” He kissed her shoulder.
She turned to face him. “You needn’t spend so much time in London.”
“Perhaps not, but what would I do with myself at the Abbey?”
Make love to me, she thought. But she said, “Sort papers.”
He nipped at her ear, and she obliged with a squeak.
“Many men seem to enjoy country living,” she argued. “In addition to running their estate, they hunt, shoot, and fish. Meet other country gentlemen . . .”
“To talk about hunting, shooting, and fishing. And crop yields and the diseases of cattle and sheep.”
“Discussions on the improvements in agriculture. Exploration of mining and local industries.”
“You can do that for me.”
“I doubt a woman would be allowed.”
“And it’s not your interest, either, is it?”
A tricky subject. “I’ll keep to our agreement.”
He kissed her. “I want your happiness.”
She kissed him back. “I want our happiness, but we can’t leave the Abbey estate to the dowager. You’d never be happy if things went awry there.”
“You give me too much credit.”
“Do I?”
He sighed. “No.” He rolled onto his back. “It should be easy for me to simply spend more time there with you, but there are serious matters in play, Kitty, all centered on London, and I can be useful.”
“Can’t others do those tasks as well?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. The truth is, it’s my life.”
“You did similar things in the war,” she said.
“Yes. Looking at the larger picture, holding more in my mind than most and finding the patterns. And the keys. And strengthening small alliances. Remembering details helps there, too. Family histories and rivalries, small misdemeanors and desires, careless words . . .”
She moved over him. “Thus we are as we are. For now at least. Circumstances might change.”
“You hope Britain will become more orderly, peaceful, and just? I don’t expect it soon.”
“I wasn’t being so visionary. Perhaps once we have everything in order at the Abbey, I can spend more time in London.”
“Optimistic visionary! But you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“That’s what we’re discussing.”
He brushed hair off her face. “I mean that it’s not just me. London’s in your blood.”
She sighed. “Yes. Many people dislike the crowds, the noise, the smoke and smells, but it’s alive. There’s something exciting around every corner. The arts, the sciences, the fairs and shops. If I can move the dowager elsewhere . . .”
“Dreaming on a star?”
“There has to be a way. To make everything right, I mean.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Perhaps we can’t achieve international peace, but we should be able to put one country estate into a healthy and stable condition.” He brushed tangled hair off her face. “Don’t fret about it for now, Kit Kat. We’re here and have reason to stay a while. Take pleasure in the day. And the night.”
She smiled and kissed him, then enjoyed the simple pleasure of falling asleep in her husband’s arms.
He’d called her Kit Kat.
Chapter 34
As they breakfasted the next morning, Kitty wondered if the servants could recognize the momentous change. She felt that it radiated out of her and showed in every look and smile they shared. Perhaps this was love. They were behaving much as lovers do, with sudden smiles and lingering looks.
Though her husband had the same cool elegance on the outside, the marble box had melted away to reveal warmth and passion. He’d been tender in ways she’d never known and forceful in others. They’d talked in the intimate dar
k, but often lain in each other’s arms in comfortable silence. They had been physically comfortable, but she felt sure that he, like she, had been aware of how few nights they would have together.
She’d resolved to enjoy what they had, however, even such simple pleasures as breakfast.
Then, with the door closed, he shared his secrets. He told her his reason for coming to Town and invited her comments. She’d have done her best to help him anyway, but now it was a gift.
“An attempt to blow up three middle-aged princes to prevent their marrying seems deranged,” she said.
“There are all too many deranged people active at the moment, and some capable of doing damage. Only months ago, a woman attempted to blow up Westminster, hoping to trigger a revolution similar to the one in France.”
“Madness! How?”
“Using a gasometer.”
“At least that’s a novel idea,” Kitty said, buttering another slice of toast. “In contrast, this seems clumsy, and very old-fashioned. A barrel of gunpowder in the basement? All too like Guy Fawkes.”
“The Gunpowder Plot could easily have worked,” he pointed out. “If there’d been no warning back in 1605, Catesby and Fawkes could have blown up king and Parliament and changed the course of history.”
Kitty nibbled her toast, as delighted by this discussion as she’d been by their lovemaking in the night. Almost. “If it was so easy to get the barrel of gunpowder into the house, why not deliver it later? Then they could have overwhelmed the footman, set it to explode, and escaped with the task completed.”
“I hope you never put your mind to mayhem,” he said drily. “But a daylight delivery would be normal, whereas an evening one wouldn’t.”
“True. And they’d be busier then, so might refuse the delivery.” She sipped some chocolate. Again he was drinking ordinary coffee. He’d said that he kept the Turkish for special moments. She’d teased him about this not being special. . . .