Recalling the words it contained still made his hands sweat and his stomach turn over.
I never loved you…. I go to one who truly cherishesme, an officer of the king’s Guards and a real gentleman…. Don’t try to pursue us.
He had pursued her, of course. And perhaps sensing that pursuit, she must have driven recklessly along the twisting road that led from the city to the military encampment. He’d come upon her phaeton, one wheel off and its body smashed against the pale Bath stone of the sharp curve she’d not quite managed to negotiate. Arrived too late to arrest her flight, too late to beg another chance for their marriage. Like a fashion mannequin propped on a shelf, she sat among the ruins, her lovely neck lolling at an angle, her open eyes staring. “I never loved you….”
He realized he still gripped a glass of champagne and downed it in a gulp. Be sensible, he rebuked himself.
He should hardly find it surprising that Sarah once had a beau. She was too remarkable to have escaped the notice of some discerning gentleman, even buried as she’d been in the wilds of the country.
Had he not suspected some romance gone awry after she kissed him with such practiced skill? ’Twas an indigent viscount with a disapproving mother who’d schooled her responses, apparently. And then gone for a soldier.
But he’d loved Sarah, this dashing young hussar in his fur-trimmed blue coat. Had Sarah loved him as well?
Sapskull, he admonished. Why should Sarah have confessed a former love? After all, he’d not vouchsafed to her any details of his own disastrous entanglements.
She’d come to London to find a husband, was nearly pledged to another when he rescued her. Whatever her relationship with the soldier, ’twas clearly over now. To start suspecting deception behind her words, betrayal in her actions, would be unfair to Sarah and would sound a death knell to any chance of future happiness.
I will lock away the memories, he vowed, and never compare Sarah’s behavior to Lydia’s. ’Twas the only honorable course—not to mention the only path that would preserve his sanity. Nonetheless, he uttered a swift, fervent prayer that a certain hussar remain safely posted in the farthest reaches of the Peninsula.
Several hours later, Sarah stood in Aunt Sophrina’s entryway in her smart new turquoise traveling dress to offer her family a final hug. In a shower of good wishes, she and Nicholas entered the carriage that would take them to the little cottage outside London Ned had lent them for their honeymoon.
Sitting beside Nicholas, his thigh warm and hard against hers as the rumbling carriage jostled them together, she thought with a shuddering thrill of the night ahead. This time, fear curdled the excitement. Her handsome husband was so powerfully male—and so very big.
Put Findlay’s nasty words out of your head, she ordered herself. He said them for naught but revenge, the wretch, knowing you couldn’t pull away in the middle of a dance—
She jumped when Nicholas patted her hand.
“Turquoise becomes you, too, my lovely wife. And as I know of no realm that employs currency of that hue, you can’t possibly misconstrue this compliment.”
She laughed nervously. “Th-thank you, my lord.”
“My friends call me Nicky,” he said softly, “and you may if you wish. But I rather prefer the way you say ‘Nicholas.’” His fingers caressed her cheek as he tilted up her chin. “You make my name sound like music.”
A deep peace settled over her. How could she fear this man, who had shown her naught but gentleness and affection? She might distrust his gambling, but she knew beyond question he would never harm her. Willingly she leaned up to meet his lips.
He didn’t try to deepen or prolong the kiss. Ending it, he merely held her close. “You’ve had an exhausting week, sweeting. Rest now. I’ll wake you when we arrive.”
She ought to engage him in some pleasant conversation to while away the dull, dark minutes. But his arms about her were so comfortably warm, his shoulder so broad and inviting a pillow, that even as she murmured a protest, she felt her heavy eyelids descending. In an instant, she was asleep.
His hands cradling the brandy glass, Nicholas waited for his wife’s maid to prepare Sarah for bed. His previous experience with initiating a gently bred virgin into the duties of matrimony had been distinctly unpleasant, and he frankly dreaded the task ahead.
Lydia had been all seductive enticement until the fatal moment. Apparently shocked by the pain, she pleaded with him to stop. Concerned and utterly frustrated, he had done so. Despite his efforts over the next few days to soothe and prepare her, she remained skittish and moody. After she finally permitted him to finish the deed, she wept. And kept her bedroom door locked for a week.
Well, this time he would go slowly from the very beginning. Fortunately, he’d noticed no signs of missishness in Sarah. Indeed, her kisses seemed to promise a rather receptive welcome. The thought cheered him, until he remembered her obvious nervousness during the drive.
’Twas only the natural trepidation of a virtuous maiden on her wedding night. Or was it? an insidious little voice asked. “Everyone knows he really loves—”
Uneasiness stirred. Might Sarah’s distress have been, not bridal nerves, but the anxiety of a new wife who feared to be discovered less a maid than she should be?
Nonsense, he told himself, annoyed that he’d once again slipped into comparisons, and even more annoyed at the invidious suspicion. Sarah would never have offered herself on the Marriage Mart, were she less than a virgin. He was quite certain of it. With that reassuring conclusion, he downed the brandy and strode purposely from the room.
Sarah’s nervousness returned later that evening as Becky, the sisters’ former nursemaid, helped her into the shimmering gold nightrail and began unplaiting her hair.
A quick knock sounded. Clad in a satin-frogged dressing gown, Nicholas entered.
Becky curtsied. “My lord, let me but untangle—”
“Allow me.” Nicholas reached for the brush.
Becky cast Sarah an inquiring look. Her stomach in knots, Sarah returned a short nod.
Becky handed him the brush and bowed herself out.
Acutely conscious of a partially clad Nicholas behind her, Sarah opened and closed her mouth, unable to dredge up a single conversational topic.
Meanwhile, Nicholas separated her thick braid into individual plaits. “Lord, Sarah, what glorious hair you have,” he said, his voice a husky rumble. Slowly he combed his fingers through it to untangle the full length.
She shivered when he ran his thumb down the back of her head, parting the hair in two. Then he pulled the tresses forward over her shoulders and let them fall to her lap.
Stray strands brushed silken across her jaw, setting her nerves tingling. The tips of her breasts burned at the cascading caress of hair over satin.
Nicholas groaned deep in his throat. “Glorious,” he breathed, and pressed his lips to the bare nape of her neck.
Sarah’s heart leapt in her chest, and despite her best intentions, she stiffened.
Nicholas straightened. She gasped when he wrapped his arms around her, but he merely slid her over on the bench and seated himself beside her.
“What is it, Sarah?” He took her hand and looked closely at her. “You’ve been skittish as an unbroken colt all evening—and your fingers are like ice.”
“’Tis n-nothing,” she stuttered. Her obvious cowardice disgusted him, she thought miserably. She cast about for some calm, confident reply, but no words came.
The warmth seemed to leave him and his eyes narrowed. “Troubled thoughts, my dear?” he drawled, his tone slightly mocking. “Surely you don’t fear what this evening will reveal? Or dare I hope ’tis delight makes you shiver—anticipation of the treats Findlay whispered about today?”
Sarah shuddered, closing her eyes as those far-from-delightful predictions once again assailed her. She felt a scarlet tide of shame and embarrassment mount her cheeks. Then Nicholas’s hand under her chin lifted her face to his.
Whe
n she reluctantly opened her eyes, an arrested expression had replaced the coldness on his face.
“Did Findlay speak to you about tonight?” he demanded.
She stared at him, her high color making it pointless for her to deny it. With a sigh, she nodded.
“Bloody bastard!” His eyes blazed, but when he met her anxious gaze, the fierceness left him. He took her chilled hands and chafed them gently. “I hate that he upset you, sweet Sarah. What did he say to frighten you so?”
“I’m s-sorry, Nicholas!” she cried, still mortified by her cravenness. “I’m not frightened, truly!”
“Oh, no.” He grinned at her, looking inexplicably relieved. “You always go round with frozen limbs and cringe when I’m near, as if an ogre were about to attack.” With a mock growl, he nibbled her fingers.
She had to chuckle. “He did say some…distressing things,” she admitted, “but I dismissed them.”
“I can see you did.” Wrapping his arms about her, he drew her close. “What did he tell you, Sarah?”
“I’d as lief not discuss it.”
He shook his head, adamant. “I think I need to know.”
She exhaled in an unhappy little rush. “He said you would not—” she flushed and turned away “—you would not have a, a care for me, that you would…” Heavens, she could hardly tell him Findlay had warned Nicholas would be as quick as possible about the business, the faster to return to his beautiful mistress. Nor could she bring herself to utter the ugly, explicit words in which he described how Nicholas would go about it.
“That I would…?” he prompted.
She opened her lips, then firmly closed them. After a moment, she said, “I’m sorry, Nicholas. I couldn’t possibly repeat the rest.” Straightening her shoulders, she willed her body not to tremble. “He meant to spoil my wedding night, but I shall not let him. I’m ready, truly.”
“You’re not afraid of me, are you?”
“Of course not.”
He smiled at her unhesitating response. “Thank you for that. Then believe me, sweet Sarah, I would never hurt you. You do believe that?”
She nodded, unable to pull her gaze from his.
“You know what happens between a husband and a wife?” When she nodded again, he continued. “’Tis unreasonable to expect to go from friendship to such intimacy in an instant. We have Ned’s little house all to ourselves, for as long as we want. There’s no need to rush.”
“But I wish to be your wife now, tonight!” she cried. Heavens, waiting wouldn’t ease her anxiety, and besides, perhaps this very night she might conceive a son. “Nicholas, please.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes!”
A slow smile lit his face. “Far be it for me to refuse a lady.”
Chapter Eight
Sarah smiled back tremulously, determined to yield to him with no more ridiculous missishness. But he didn’t lead her to the bed. Instead he took up the hairbrush once more.
Her surprise must have shown, for he chuckled. Slowly he pulled the brush through her unbound tresses. “What happens between a man and a woman takes many forms, and is quite delightful, sweet wife. Being a greedy sort, I like to make it last.”
She’d always loved having her long, thick hair brushed out. Sighing, she relaxed into the soothing strokes.
She was near to drowsing when Nicholas dropped the brush and began combing the heavy strands with his fingers instead. “I’d guessed your unbound hair would be like this,” he whispered, “the sheen of satin with the feel of silk. I didn’t dream it would be so beautifully thick and long, falling all the way—” his fingertips traced through the tresses from her collarbone down her chest, over her tautened nipples, her waist, her thighs “—to your knees.”
He grasped a few strands and gently pulled her face to his. This time, it was she who made the first sound, a little shuddering moan as he kissed her forehead, the tips of her earlobes and finally her lips.
He made it last, just as he’d promised. At first his mouth merely brushed hers. Then with his tongue he slowly outlined the slender, sensitive ridge where skin becomes lip. Deep within her, a hot, breathless tension coiled.
She was warm, so warm. Her nipples seemed to swell and ache, each gossamer touch sending a tingle of sensation to them, and lower.
She needed more of him, closer. Carried away by the liquid fire coursing to every vein, she opened her mouth.
His hands on her shoulders clenched and his tongue swept inside, probing deeply. Then his grip eased and he slowed to trace her tongue with light, quick touches.
The tension within her grew, her pulse throbbing to the teasing advance and retreat. The taste of him, wine-sweet, his scent of maleness and sandalwood, made her dizzy. She felt perspiration along her back, between her breasts.
She stretched toward him, craving the touch of his hands, the feel of his body against hers.
Kissing her more deeply, Nicholas carried her to the bed. He raised the hem of her nightrail, his hands tracing spiral circles of wonderment along her ankles, her shins, her knees. “Are you sure, sweeting?” he whispered hoarsely.
Her body burned, the very core of her molten with heat and pressure, like lava rising. “Y-yes, please!”
In one swift movement he pulled off her gown. Modesty abandoned, she parted her legs and urged him toward her.
He made a sound deep in his throat, half chuckle, half growl. “Not yet, sweeting.” Capturing her hands, he drew them from around his neck, brought them to her sides and reclined his body beside her. Slowly he slid his fingers over her bare hip to cup her breast.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, and bent his head.
His tongue circled her nipple, tasted it. She cried out, unprepared by anything she’d experienced for the surge of exquisite sensation that flooded her as he suckled.
His hand caressed the ridge of her hipbone, moved lazily across the smooth curve of her belly, dipped to touch the warm, moist center of her parted thighs.
“When I come in you,” he whispered against her breast, “I’ll come here.” He slid a finger into her intimate passage. “Are you ready, sweeting?”
She must truly be melting, for she felt herself wet against him. Beyond speech, she moved with him as he withdrew, pushed deeper. “R-ready,” she answered unsteadily.
At some point he must have removed his own robe, for when he swung his body over her, his hard man’s part probed where his fingers had been. He thrust down.
A clear flame of pain seared her, and she gasped.
He stilled, his rigid shaft a stretching, tearing pressure at her core. Murmuring soothingly, he braced himself on his arms and bent to lave one nipple.
Pleasurable sensation rippled through her faintly, then stronger. She sighed, her muscles softening.
His tongue laving first one breast, then the other, then drinking of her lips, he slowly eased himself deeper. The harsh burning within her subsided to a throbbing ache. As she relaxed, the coiling tension, momentarily suspended, started to build once more.
He began to move, and she learned his rhythm. The ache lessened, submerged under a simmering urgency.
His breath shortened, the muscles of his arms knotted. Then he cried out, his whole body tensing. After a breathless moment, he exhaled with a shudder. Holding her close, he rolled them over and settled her against him.
Sarah lay listening to the sound of their breathing as it steadied and slowed. She felt at once strangely dissatisfied, and elated. She was truly his wife now. And it had been nothing like Findlay predicted.
She thought of the gentleness Nicholas had shown, how he’d waited for her body to accommodate his. With a thrill that sparked her breasts and thighs to renewed throbbing, she remembered the incredible reactions he’d drawn from her with mouth and hands and tongue.
Nicholas pressed his lips to her shoulder. Propping himself on an elbow, he smiled down at her.
She smiled back. “Oh, Nicholas,” she whispered, “that was w
onderful!”
He chuckled and kissed her on the mouth. “Are you sure? I swore I’d not hurt you, but I know I must have.”
“Only for a little. As for the rest—ah, ’twas as marvelous as you said.”
He kissed her again, his tongue twining with hers as if to demonstrate gratification at her approval. That heated tension within her, which had subsided as she lay quiescent, began to build again.
“’Twill become more delightful still, sweet wife. For the lady, ’tis always better after the first.”
His fingers played with the ends of her hair, feathering light touches across the insides of her thighs as he did so. The pressure grew more urgent.
“I can hardly c-credit it,” she stuttered, the motion of his hands somehow hindering speech.
“Ah, I knew you were of scientific mind,” he murmured. He moved his hand higher, dallying with the thicker, tighter curls nested there. “I think we should test the theory.”
His fingers slid to her passage, now dewed with her essence and his. She moaned. Taking that for assent, he put his lips to her breast.
She shuddered and arched into him. This time, he traced with his tongue the pebbly edge of her nipples, holding her still when she would have moved. Against his exploring fingers she felt herself liquefy.
Instead of plunging deeper, he withdrew a finger and slid upward, painting her inner lips until he touched—there.
She jumped, even his slight pressure on that small, rigid spot unbelievably acute. Murmuring, he suckled her harder and rubbed his slick fingers against it.
Over and over he stroked her, his fingers dipping to her throbbing wet passage and then back, the feel of it so piercingly exquisite she felt she must surely shatter. When the stroking suddenly ceased, she felt bereft.
He stifled her protest with a quick kiss, then moved his mouth to the place his finger had stroked.
If the sensation had been intense before, ’twas doubly so now—the soft pressure and liquid heat of his tongue sparking fire against her tender nub, and then lower as it slid into the passage his manhood had probed. Compelled to move, she broke free of his restraining hold and arched up at him, instinctively finding the rhythm.
The Wedding Gamble Page 11