The Heart Breaker

by Nicole Jordan

  But then … it was too much to ask for a husband who cherished her with all his soul. She had relinquished that dream long ago. And she had made her bed, so to speak. It was now time to lie in it.

  Her glance went to the huge bed draped in crimson hangings. She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of trepidation.

  Sloan saw the direction of her gaze. Clenching his jaw, he took a final swallow of coffee, then tossed aside his napkin and rose. “If you’ll excuse me…”

  She gave him a startled glance as he crossed to the door. “Where are you going?”

  “The smoking car,” he threw over his shoulder. “There’s a poker game in progress.”

  Her look of dismay made Sloan recall her father’s disastrous gambling habits. “I thought I might win back some of the money I paid Randolf,” he added defensively. “You can read your treatise. I doubt you’ll miss me.”

  “Will you be coming back?”

  His blue gaze sharpened. “You’re not worried that I might try to skip out on you?”

  “The thought had occurred to me.”

  “I’m a man of my word, duchess. I’m not planning to abandon you.”

  Dropping her gaze, Heather shifted the food on her plate with her fork. “Actually, I was … wondering about… appearances. How will it look if we … if you …”

  “If I leave my bride alone on our wedding night? Who’s to know that we’re newly wedded?”

  “I would know. I thought… you … we …”

  “You thought we would consummate our union, is that it?”

  Her cheeks flushed at his plain speaking. “It is customary for a married couple, I understand.”

  Sloan muttered a curse under his breath. With such unsettling feelings of guilt and disloyalty churning inside him, he’d hoped to avoid the consummation tonight—maybe give them both time to come to terms with the strangeness of this situation, this unwanted union. But in fact, there was no real reason not to go through with it. Randolf’s car had ample space, where an ordinary sleeping berth would have been crowded. And the large bed was as inviting as any he’d seen, well-suited to the purpose of lovemaking.

  Perhaps it was best to get it over with now. If only to put it behind them and help the duchess get over her obvious apprehension. She kept glancing at him like a nervous filly, like she expected him to tie her to the bed and rape her.

  Hell, he was just as uneasy with her, Sloan reflected, though he doubted she would believe it. He’d never felt so uncomfortable with a woman; this proper lady with her elegant airs and treatises written in French was so different from his late wife. He didn’t like the memories of the past the duchess dredged up, or his unwanted attraction for her. Didn’t like what she made him feel, how raw she made his emotions.

  And yet walking out on her now might be considered a bit cruel. She would doubtless find it humiliating to be left alone on her wedding night.

  Could he stay? Could he take her body and bind her to him in marriage? Could he make the fact of their union irrevocable?

  Truth to tell, it wouldn’t really be a hardship to make love to her… except for the danger to his own defenses. He didn’t want to be tempted by that white, silken skin, that lush, cool beauty of hers. He was scared as hell he would enjoy the experience too much, when all he wanted was to remain true to the memory of his late wife. Desiring the duchess the way he did seemed somehow traitorous.

  He couldn’t ignore the powerful need she aroused in him. Couldn’t stop remembering their kiss yesterday, the way her mouth had softened and shaped itself to his … how they’d almost lit a brushfire between them. At the thought, his manhood began to stir.

  Angry at his body’s reaction, Sloan leaned back against the door and crossed his arms over his chest, determined to keep his hands to himself for as long as possible. “I suppose we should get it over with.”

  “If you don’t wish to go through with the marriage—”

  “What I wish is beside the point at this late date.” Sloan cocked his head, considering her. “Do you know how a consummation is conducted?”

  He intended to make this difficult for her, Heather suspected. “Not… precisely.”

  He seemed unsurprised by her inexperience, she noted. Yet thanks to Winnie, she was not totally unaware of what was expected of her. Still, she’d never before felt so vulnerable. She had no experience dealing with this situation, with this kind of man. A ruthless stranger who was too tough, too remote, to show much in the way of understanding or compassion or sympathy for her nervousness.

  “However,” Heather added stubbornly, “I am not entirely ignorant about… about the mating act.”

  One dark-gold eyebrow shot up. “How’d you learn? You read about it in a book?”

  “No. Winnie advised me.”

  “Did she now? And just what did she tell you?”

  “She said … to trust you. That you would know what to do. She said tonight … might hurt the first time, but if you were a … considerate lover, the act would be pleasurable.”

  “Is that all she said?”

  Her flush deepened. “Well… she also said I should try to … give you pleasure in return.”

  Heather thought she caught the faint ghost of a grin. “I fail to understand why that should amuse you,” she retorted tersely.

  His expression sobered. “Believe me, duchess, nothing about this situation amuses me. I just find it hard to think of Winnie as an expert on carnal relations.”

  “Well, she seemed to know what she was talking about.”

  “And just how are you supposed to accomplish giving me pleasure?”

  “She said … that you would show me.”

  Heather heard Sloan take a deep, slow breath. Then he exhaled in a sigh. “Okay, duchess. Come here.”

  She eyed him warily. “Why?”

  “So we can get on with it. Unless you want this to take all night?”

  Rising from the table, Heather forced herself to cross the car and stand before him. She could feel the train’s vibration coming up from the floor, running through her limbs and heightening the sensation in all her nerve endings.

  “I think maybe you should have the honors.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You kiss me this time—unless you’re not woman enough after all.”

  He was taunting her, challenging her … intentionally, she suspected. He knew she would rise to the challenge. But at least it made her less afraid and gave her the courage to lift her mouth and press it to his.

  He tasted of whiskey and his own highly arousing, masculine flavor. When he made no move to help her, Heather drew back to eye him with annoyance.

  “I cannot manage it alone,” she said stiffly. “Perhaps you might condescend to instruct me.”

  “You’re doing all right.” His hard, sensual mouth curved in a half-smile. “Give it a chance.”

  This time she increased the pressure of her kiss and felt a feminine flood of heat shiver through her in response.

  Dazed at the pleasure she felt, Heather shut her eyes and savored the taste of him. How a man as cold as he could have such warm, enticing lips was beyond imagination. As the gentle kiss went on, she felt herself tremble. Her hands rose to his shoulders of their own accord, but then she hesitated, uncertain what to do next.

  When she faltered, he whispered against her lips, “Open your mouth this time. Use your tongue.”

  “I… don’t know how.”

  “Like this…”

  He proceeded to show her, the warm stroke of his tongue inside her mouth nearly making her melt.

  “This,” Sloan murmured, “is like what I’ll do to you when I have you in bed.”

  His demonstration was explicit enough that she couldn’t mistake his meaning. She could feel the hard bulge at his loins through their layers of clothing, could feel his hard belly and slim hips pressing against her. The rocking motion of the train only made it worse, for it rubbed their bodies together.

  Sl
oan was keenly aware of his physical condition as well. He drew back to stare reluctantly down at her. “Sure you don’t want to back out, duchess? If you mean to, now’s the time.”

  In response, she unconsciously moistened her lower lip with the tip of her tongue.

  Desire hit him in the gut. Damn, he didn’t want this, Sloan thought defiantly. He wanted to remember Doe. Doe was the wife of his heart. This stranger could never take her place.

  Yet it had gone too far to stop. His late wife was merely a fading memory now. Painful, poignant, yet distant all the same. As insubstantial as a dream. This woman was flesh and blood, lush, warm, and very, very real. The fever in his blood needed appeasement now.

  “No…” she said softly, echoing his thoughts. “I don’t want to back out.”

  His sigh was long and slow as desire warred with regret and won. “We’d best take off our clothes then.”

  She froze, staring at him.

  “Do you need help undressing?”

  “No. It’s just … the light …”

  He looked at her with something like tenderness softening his hard features. “You don’t have any charms I haven’t seen before on a woman, duchess, but if it’ll make you feel better…”

  Quietly he moved about the car snuffing the lamp wicks, banishing the harsh, revealing light, leaving only the one beside the bed burning with a low flame. “That better?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t need to look so worried. I’m not about to murder you.”

  With a skeptical smile at his intended reassurance, Heather turned slowly and moved away from him. Keeping her back to Sloan, she carefully removed her bodice jacket and skirt and laid them on the chaise longue. Her shirtwaist followed, then petticoat and corset, half-boots and stockings. Finally her linen shift. She shivered as the cool air touched her bare skin.

  Gathering her nerve, she turned back to face Sloan. The remaining lamplight was still too bright to be merciful, and so were his eyes. They ruthlessly surveyed her as she stood naked before him. Every ounce of modesty she possessed was outraged, and yet she felt a strange excitement as well. The mere feel of his eyes on her naked breasts made her quiver with sensation, made her heart beat far too rapidly.

  This man was her husband, she had to remember that. He had a right to look at her if he wanted. To touch her. To have her body.

  He looked his fill, taking his time, while the silence stretched thickly between them, accentuated by the steady grinding throb of the train wheels.

  He seemed entirely dispassionate. Yet despite outward appearances, it was all Sloan could do to conceal his physical response to her beauty. She had a perfect body, he thought resentfully. More perfect than his dream.

  She was nothing like his late wife. With her ripe, white curves, her proud thrusting breasts, the pale curls at the vee of her silken thighs, his new bride was every inch a duchess, elegant and proper, ladylike and shy.

  But she had courage, he’d give her that. She was returning his gaze defiantly, her chin raised at an angle he was beginning to recognize. He reached for his belt buckle.

  He proceeded to undress slowly, first his frock coat, then his tie and starched linen shirt, and finally his trousers and long johns.

  Heather watched with bated breath. His potent masculinity was even more apparent as Sloan shed the last of his clothing. For all his leanness, he was unexpectedly muscular, his naked torso roped with long, smooth cords that rippled when he moved. His arms and back particularly were bronzed from the sun, while the center of his chest was covered with a triangle of silky dark-gold hair.

  She could not deny there was a wild, primitive beauty to his body. He had long, lean legs and a horseman’s powerful thighs and calves, his belly ridged with muscle....

  Heather drew a sharp breath. Her gaze locked on his loins, heavy and aroused. Rising there from the swirls of hair was that pulsing awesome maleness she’d felt burning through their clothing.

  A fine shaking seized her legs. Winnie had said a considerate lover would make the act enjoyable for a woman. But would Sloan McCord believe she deserved consideration?

  His expression was shuttered, no emotion showing in those bright, compelling eyes, the hard planes of his face. When he took a step toward her, a wild sensation fluttered in her middle, a deep primal fear.

  Sloan came to an abrupt halt. Her eyes were clear and huge, her mouth soft and vulnerable. He cursed silently. He’d spent half the night dreaming about that mouth, that softness. He clenched his teeth at the heavy surge in his loins. He could simply take her, with no emotion, no tenderness, no passion. A brief, impersonal coupling, all business. Or he could make her first time good for her.

  Damn, but he really had no choice. He didn’t want to hurt Heather. Didn’t want her to fear him.

  “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to,” he murmured, his voice hoarser than he liked.

  He stood very still, letting her take in every detail of his body, giving her time to grow accustomed to the prospect of nudity between them, aware that she was getting her first eyeful of a naked man. And he was a highly sexed man at that. Desire pulsed in his groin with a sweet, almost unendurable ache, yet he tried to repress it. He would have to go slow with her. He couldn’t treat Duchess Ashford like a saloon whore. She was nothing like the experienced women he used to enjoy before his first marriage. She was nothing like the women of the Cheyenne, who found great pleasure in open, uninhibited sex, mating like wild animals.

  Only when her look of alarm faded did he stir a muscle. Then silently Sloan drew down the brocade coverlet to expose ivory satin sheets. Then, without a word, he took her hand and led her to the bed.

  She moved stiffly, and he could feel the tension in her slender fingers as she followed hesitantly. Yet she made no protest as he held the sheet for her to climb into bed.

  Sliding in after her, Sloan untied the near sash of the bed hangings and let the curtain fall, enveloping them in semidarkness. When he turned on his side, he could see the soft gold-red glow of her skin cast by the crimson brocade. She lay watching him, clutching the sheet to her breasts, her eyes wide, bottomless pools.

  “You’re not afraid of me, are you, duchess?”

  “Perhaps … just a little.”

  “There’s no need to be. You were right. I’m not the sort to hurt women.”

  “Not intentionally, I suppose.”

  An unconsciously tender smile touched his mouth. “I promise, I’m not going to do anything you don’t ask me for. Now why don’t you relax and roll over.”

  “What?”

  “Turn over. Give me your back.”

  She stared at him a moment, then warily did as she was bid. His arms came around her, drawing her close, into the warm curve of his body. Heather caught her breath at the stunning contact. She could feel Sloan’s muscled body at her back, sleek and hard. Could feel his heat, his heartbeat.

  He held her that way for a long while, cradling her, silent in the darkness. Heather remained rigid, flinching when his hand moved ever so slowly beneath the sheet to cover her bare midriff.

  “Does this hurt?”

  “N-No.”

  She remained tense under his hand as he began to caress her skin. He pressed closer to nuzzle the nape of her neck. “What about this?”

  “No.”

  His hand slid upward to cup her breast. “And this?”

  She could feel her nipple throb against his palm. “No, it doesn’t hurt.”

  “Good. I don’t want it to hurt. I want it to feel good.”

  He stroked her for a long time, until finally she started to relax. When he touched her shoulder, urging her onto her back, she obeyed helplessly, making no protest even when he drew the sheet down to bare her body.

  Heather held her breath as he bent over her, as his lips found the soft underside of her throat. But when he moved lower to close his mouth over a tightly budded nipple, she gasped and clutched at his shoulders.

  “I wa
nt you to see,” he murmured against the fullness of her breast, “just how much pleasure your body can give you.”

  She was beginning to understand. She could scarcely bear the incredible sensations streaking through her at the feel of his hard, hot, arousing mouth softly sucking. She shifted restlessly at the vibrant heat that burned inside her. Never before had she realized how sensitive her woman’s breasts were. Never before had she felt this fierce, pulsing ache, deep in the pit of her stomach.

  He drew back, his eyes touching her more intimately than his hands and mouth had done. She’d been wrong about his lack of emotion. It was there, fiery and intense, not so much banked as carefully hidden. His raw sensuality was a potent force. Yet there was gentleness in him after all. His hands were tender, delicate … deliberate, as they stroked her with skillful rhythm. The welcome warmth he was arousing in her began to blur the edges of her fear.

  Her gaze locked with his as his mesmerizing caresses moved lower. Then slowly his fingers brushed the golden curls crowning her thighs. Her body shivered in a silken tremor.

  He smiled as her frown reflected her need and confusion. Gently he parted her thighs. “Open for me, sweetheart…”

  With his fingers he caressed her, stroking her to quiescence, till he felt her soft folds grow moist and slick, till her embarrassment gave way to a vibrating, throbbing sensation that grew and built.

  When he settled his body between her parted thighs, though, Heather went rigid again.

  “Easy now, easy…” He whispered gentle, calming words until she warmed and softened against him. All the while his manhood pulsed between her legs. He remained unmoving, letting her become accustomed to the feel of his rigid arousal, allowing her to respond at her own pace.

  Heather quivered as the heat and power of his naked chest pressed down on her, his flesh smooth and hot. She wanted to escape the threat he posed, yet something deep and primal pulled her to him. Her woman’s body craved the maleness of him, his hard heaviness. Closing her eyes, she strained upward shamelessly, seeking his heat.

  Sloan gritted his teeth, fighting the heavy throbbing sensation of his flesh. It had been so very long since he had touched a woman. Forcing himself to go slowly, he lowered his weight and arched his hips, pressing himself into her. Sweet Christ, she was tight.