He shuddered when he remembered how difficult his wedding night had been with Fanny. She’d loved him, yet she’d been reluctant to allow him the liberties of a husband. He believed Fanny had eventually learned to enjoy their lovemaking, but she’d never relished it as he did. He couldn’t imagine what the coming night was going to be like, when he’d only known the woman he’d wed—and planned to bed—for a single week.
Except, Josie was as different from Fanny as night was from day. He hadn’t been tempted to kiss Fanny at the altar. He hadn’t carted her through a rainstorm and laughed about it afterward. And he hadn’t kissed her with abandon on the way to their wedding breakfast.
But comparisons weren’t fair. Fanny had been raised to be a proper English lady, a model of decorum, whose impeccable behavior was permanently restrained and reserved. Blackthorne doubted his American wife had a reticent bone in her body.
After they’d returned from the garden, Josie had smiled and nodded to everyone who’d attended their wedding breakfast, without a single protest. She’d laughed with his sisters and listened attentively to his grandmother. She’d even chatted for a few moments with him.
But he’d been certain that, in spite of her constant smile, she’d been preoccupied by whatever had been troubling her when she’d escaped to the garden. His wife was in some kind of trouble. He wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he didn’t think he was wrong. Josie was a good actress. He just wished he knew what role she was playing.
He tightened the belt on the paisley silk Sulka robe he’d donned to spare his bride’s modesty. He’d bought it in New York, a last stop before heading home to be married to Fanny, after he’d rescued the girl from the Sioux. He wondered where that wounded waif was now. He felt a lingering regret that he’d never heard from her again. Where she was—or who she was—no longer mattered. Whatever hope there had been of perhaps finding her and getting to know her had died with this forced wedding to someone else.
How different this wedding was from his first! For one thing, there would be no honeymoon. Instead of sailing the Aegean, enjoying decadent dinners in Paris, and viewing antiquities in Rome, as he had with his first wife, he and Josie would be spending their time refurbishing Blackthorne Abbey. It dawned on him how unfair that was to his bride.
But Josie hadn’t grumbled about—or even mentioned—the missing honeymoon. Which was another one of those anomalies that made him wonder and worry about his new wife.
Blackthorne glanced at the clock again and saw it was now thirty-one minutes since he’d left Josie. He crossed to the door between their rooms and knocked. He waited, his pulse unaccountably racing, for his bride to invite him inside.
And waited.
He reached for the doorknob but realized he needed—wanted—his wife’s permission to enter her room. As he stood there contemplating whether to knock again, the door opened. The only light in the room came from the fire, which had been built up in the fireplace. Shadows loomed everywhere else.
He stifled a laugh when he saw what Josie was wearing. The white flannel nightgown had a bow at the throat that was tied up tight. The blousy sleeves covered her arms to her wrists, and the heavy winter material left nothing but the tips of her bare toes showing on the Aubusson carpet. His breath caught in his throat when he focused his gaze on the glorious golden curls tumbling across her shoulders.
“I was in bed waiting for you,” she said. “I didn’t think about having to let you in.”
He saw the pale-pink silk sheets on the bed were rumpled, saw the indentation of her head on one of the pillows, and felt an immediate flare of pure animal lust.
She must have sensed his reaction, because she took a step back, gasped, and put a hand to her throat.
He took a step toward her, and she took another step back. He grinned wolfishly. “At least you’re headed in the right direction.”
She glanced over her shoulder and apparently realized that in a few more steps she would be backed up against the bed.
“I’m a little nervous,” she admitted, lifting her chin and standing her ground.
“Me, too.”
She looked flustered at his admission. “At least you’ve done this before.”
“Not with you.”
Rather than backing up any more, she headed for the fireplace across the room, where she held out her hands toward the flames. “I can never get over how cold it is in England in the spring. It reminds me of—”
He wasn’t sure whether she’d stopped speaking because she didn’t want to finish her thought, or because he’d crossed the room to stand behind her and had cupped his hands around her shoulders. He realized he didn’t give a damn what she’d been about to say. He wanted to kiss his wife.
She resisted only a moment before she allowed him to turn her around, so she was facing him. He didn’t pull her close. He had the feeling that if he did, she would resist. Instead, he used a forefinger to tip her chin up. Her gaze remained cast down, so he said, “Josie, look at me.”
She raised her gaze almost defiantly to meet his, but her breathing was erratic, and he could see the pulse leaping in her throat.
He slowly eased an arm around her waist and realized she must be wearing some sort of undergarment beneath her nightgown. He’d felt a layer of something beneath the gown when he’d touched her shoulders, but there was so much additional fabric between his hand and her back that he couldn’t feel the heat of her flesh. That was a problem he could solve later. Right now, he wanted to taste her mouth.
He took his time lowering his head, giving his wife the chance to turn away. Her face remained upturned, and at long last, her lips met his. And clung.
Blackthorne felt ravenous but reminded himself of her behavior when she’d kissed him in the carriage. Naïve. Uninitiated. He must take his time. He must be gentle. Ever so slowly, he slid his tongue into her mouth, seeking the honey inside, while he clutched a handful of her silky hair to angle her head. He kissed her until he couldn’t catch his breath and then kissed her some more. He teased her lips with his teeth and waited for her tongue to seek his mouth. But she seemed content to let him do the tasting.
He felt her struggling and reflexively tightened his hold around her waist, until he realized she was only trying to get her arms up around his neck. Once she did, their figures were welded together from breast to hip. Her hands tentatively slid up to caress his cheeks, to trace his ears, to scratch their way uncertainly up his nape into his hair.
His body caught fire.
Blackthorne broke the kiss to look into Josie’s eyes. He was confused—but delighted—by her behavior. He’d been prepared to counter reticence and restraint. He hadn’t expected his wife to be so willing. He didn’t quite believe what was happening between them.
And he didn’t quite trust her to be honest with him.
Her pupils were huge, her lips swollen from his kisses, her cheeks flushed, and her breathing was even more irregular than it had been when she’d admitted she was anxious about what he might want to do with her—or to her—on their wedding night. She couldn’t be faking those responses.
He pulled the bow loose at her throat and undid several buttons, before pressing his lips against the flesh at her throat beneath her ear and sucking lightly. Her head fell back, and her moan of pleasure caused his shaft to throb.
Blackthorne knew that the first time could be painful. But his insistent body made it impossible to think about anything except putting himself deep inside her.
He scooped Josie into his arms and carried her to the bed, laying her head on the pillow so her hair flowed out like a golden halo around her face in the firelight. He untied his sash and yanked off his robe. Her eyes turned into saucers in the few moments she had to view his nakedness, before he covered her body with his own. He shoved her gown up far enough to reveal her naked belly and spread her legs apart with his knees, leaving her open to his thrust.
“Wait! Stop!”
Her fingernails clawed at
his forearms, but her protest had come too late. He was already past the barrier that confirmed her virginity, already seated deep inside her wet warmth. He paused then, and looked at her face in the shadows. Her eyes were luminous. Mysterious. And filled with pain.
She whimpered, and he said, “Shh. The worst is over.”
He remained still, although his body pulsed with the need to move inside her. “Shall I stop?”
It would probably kill him if she said yes. But the necessary broaching of his bride had been accomplished. The marriage could no longer be invalidated on that basis. He hated the suspicion that had brought that thought to mind and forced it out of his head.
He saw the struggle on her face before she said, “You’re not done?”
He felt the smile coming before it appeared on his face. “No. There’s more.”
She lifted a brow in question, and he said, “I’ve yet to spill the seed that creates a child. Shall I continue?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
He’d wondered if his mail-order bride would be willing to bear his child. Apparently she was. He was surprised. And surprisingly pleased.
“Very well,” he said. “Let us continue.”
He lowered his head and softly kissed her while their bodies were joined. His tongue mimicked the thrust of his shaft within her body, and he groaned as he felt her hips rise to meet him. Her fingers dug into his back, sending a shiver through him, while his hand found its way inside her nightgown to her naked breast, to pinch and to play.
Blackthorne had nothing with which to compare what followed. Josie’s legs came up to circle his hips, and she clung to him as though he were the only person left in her universe. The sounds she made drove him to greater heights of excitement, and he kissed and bit and sucked every part of her he could reach.
It was a time out of time. He hadn’t expected his bride to be so responsive. He took the chance of touching her more intimately than he might have dared, finding the bud that would truly make her flower, and restraining his own climax until he felt her body begin to contract and shudder around him.
Her eyes, which had been heavy-lidded, opened wide with wonder, and she made a wrenching, guttural sound that provoked an equally animalistic response from him. Her hips arched high beneath him, and he plunged so hard and deep that her body was forced across the satin sheets. Even so, she met him thrust for thrust. Until finally, his head fell back, and he uttered a harsh, primeval sound, as he spilled himself inside her.
JOSIE FELT TRIUMPHANT. She’d coupled with Blackthorne, perhaps creating a child, and still managed to keep her identity a secret. She’d resisted when Blackthorne attempted to remove her nightgown, and it had remained on. Nor had he remarked about the additional layer of material she’d sewn into her gown, which had made it difficult—impossible?—for him to feel the raised scars on her back. They were well and truly wed, and her husband had no idea who she really was. She’d managed everything perfectly. So she couldn’t understand why—as she lay there with Blackthorne’s weight pressing her into the feather bed, her heart beating a fast tattoo, her lungs heaving—stupid tears kept welling in her eyes.
Josie still couldn’t quite believe he’d fit inside her, or that so much pleasure would follow the brief pain of penetration. Fear had made her cry out, but by the time she’d spoken, it had been too late. And what had followed…
She’d never imagined anything like the shuddering pleasure she’d found in Blackthorne’s embrace. The rasp of his beard against her flesh. The silky texture of his hair as she grabbed handfuls of it to encourage his mouth to keep on doing magical things to her breasts. The taste of him, as she tried her first shy forays into his mouth with her tongue. The play of muscle and bone, as she wrapped her legs around his naked flanks. And the exquisite pleasure that had caused her to writhe beneath his touch, when he’d caressed a place on her body she hadn’t known existed.
What had happened between them was something inexplicable. Something soul-shattering.
Was it like that for everyone? Her sister Hannah hadn’t seemed in any hurry to repeat her wedding night with Mr. McMurtry. How could her sister have resisted lying with her husband, if this was how it felt?
Josie realized suddenly what might be causing her tears. When she’d agreed to marry the Dastardly Duke, she’d conceded that she would have to consummate the marriage. Therefore, she’d been determined to enjoy the one night of lovemaking she would ever experience. She’d known that making love to Blackthorne after that would be dangerous, because she planned to leave for America with the boys as soon as she could manage it, and she couldn’t afford any emotional ties that might arise and interfere with her plans.
Unfortunately, Josie had loved making love with the duke. She wanted to do it again. And again. But if she did that, pretty soon she’d be making excuses for his behavior. There was no excuse for his neglect of his nephews or his abandonment of her. He had to be punished. The boys had to be saved. Which meant she had to avoid a repetition of the glorious wedding night she’d just experienced.
Since she couldn’t escape to cry alone, Josie settled for turning her face away from the duke, as tears began streaming down her cheeks.
A few moments later, Blackthorne slid off of her onto his back. She immediately turned onto her side away from him, curling herself into a tight ball.
“Are you all right?”
She forced back a sob and rasped, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“It sounds to me like you’re crying.”
Josie sat up, glowering at him, as she swiped at her eyes. His hair was tousled, his eyes heavy-lidded, and his beard-stubbled face looked more relaxed than she’d ever seen it. “I’ve just been through the most harrowing week of my life. I think that deserves a few tears. Of relief, if nothing else.”
“Harrowing?”
“How would you describe everything that’s happened to us in the short time since we met?”
“Exhilarating.”
“Ha!” she muttered. “That shows what you know.”
He sat up, pulling the sheet across his lap when he caught her staring with curiosity at the part of him that had been recently joined with her. “Granted, the past week has been a whirlwind of activity, but look at everything we’ve accomplished. The dukedom is saved. And you’re a duchess.”
She snorted inelegantly.
He sighed. “We’ll be heading to Blackthorne Abbey early tomorrow morning, so I suggest we both get some sleep.” He plumped the pillows behind his head and began settling the linens more comfortably around him.
Aghast at what his behavior seemed to imply, Josie clutched the bedsheet to her chest and said, “I hope you don’t intend on sleeping here.”
“Is that a problem?”
“You have a bed of your own.”
He arched a suggestive brow. “Would you rather join me there?”
“I’d rather sleep in my own bed by myself,” she retorted. “You said the choice was mine whether—”
“Whether we ever make love again. Yes, that’s true. I didn’t agree to separate accommodations. I expect to spend my nights sleeping in the same bed as my wife.”
“That’s outrageous!” Josie sputtered.
“Believe me, I can resist your charms.”
That statement was even more outrageous, as far as Josie was concerned, but she didn’t bother saying so. If Blackthorne insisted on sleeping in the same bed with her, she wouldn’t be able to discard the uncomfortable camouflage she’d donned to conceal her scarred back. She’d never have a moment’s peace, knowing that he might walk in on her at any moment and discover the truth.
In desperation she said, “Very well. We can share a bed. But not yet. Please. We’re still strangers. We need time to get to know each other first.”
He frowned. “How long is that going to take?”
“I don’t know.”
“Another week? A month? Six weeks?”
None of those sounded like enough ti
me to Josie. But the longer she could put off the inevitable, the better. Grasping at straws she said, “Until we finish the repairs at Blackthorne Abbey.”
He eyed her askance. “That could take months.”
Josie realized she’d accidentally stumbled onto the perfect solution to a completely different problem. If Blackthorne wanted her in his bed, he’d be more inclined to hurry the renovations, which suited her purposes perfectly. The sooner the Abbey was whipped back into shape, the sooner she could bring Spencer and Clay to live with them, and the sooner they could make their escape.
“Very well,” he said. “We’ll sleep separately until the renovations are complete. Or until you invite me back to your bed.”
“That isn’t going to happen.”
“I won’t argue the point.”
He seemed to think she would give in to temptation. He was wrong. He had no idea how determined she could be. She’d survived three years at the Chicago Institute for Orphaned Children. She’d survived a grueling trip across the American prairie in a Conestoga wagon. She’d survived an Indian attack and the torture that followed. And she’d survived two years of exhausting work, assigned by a housekeeper who hated her.
She could survive marriage to the Duke of Blackthorne.
She watched as Blackthorne rolled off the edge of the bed and stood naked, revealing a broad, sculpted back, a narrow waist and hips, muscular buttocks, and long, long legs. He grabbed his robe from the floor and pulled it on, hiding the male beauty she’d been admiring. Once he had the sash tied, he turned to face her again.
“My name is Marcus. I’d like to hear you say it.”
Josie grimaced. She needed to keep the Dastardly Duke at arm’s length. Calling him by his first name seemed to halve that distance. “Your friends call you Blackthorne,” she hedged.
“My family calls me Marcus.”
She would call him “Marcus,” she decided. But every time she did, she would remind herself that he was—and always would be—the Dastardly Duke. “All right, Marcus. I’ve called you by your name. Are you satisfied?”
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