Drusilla had believed she couldn’t bear even one more sensation, but then his thick crown pressed against the entrance to her body.
“Will you take me?” he whispered, nudging her swollen flesh with his blunt hardness.
She thrilled at his words. “Please.”
He pushed gently but inexorably, until he breached her. It was nothing like his finger; not even like two fingers.
“Breathe, sweetheart.”
Drusilla realized she’d been holding her breath and took short, sharp mouthfuls of air, her heart fluttering like a trapped and frantic bird as he came deeper, deeper—
Oh God . . . when would it end?
And then he flexed the powerful muscles of his hips and thrust, seeming to break through some barrier before fully sheathing himself. Her body struggled to accommodate not only the hard length, but his thickness.
“I am sorry, Drusilla. That was the worst of it.”
The thrill of pleasure she felt at his rough and ragged tone lessened the discomfort. And then she realized there was no more pain.
Her womb was heavy and full: his big body penetrating, stretching, and dominating hers. The invasion was as raw and primal as nature and she reveled in his mastery: she never wanted him to leave.
When he began to pull out, Drusilla clutched at his taut, corded waist, her fingers slipping on his slick skin. “No. Don’t—don’t leave.”
His body shook against hers, and she realized he was shaking with suppressed laughter.
“Don’t worry, darling, I won’t be gone long,” he promised, his breath hot against her temple as he settled onto his forearms, the muscles of his back rippling beneath her hands. His hips began moving, filling her yet again, the sensation becoming desirable—almost addictive. Her body jerked, and it was his turn to gasp as she tilted her hips to accept him even deeper.
His muscles went rigid beneath her hands as he thrust. “Yes.” The word was a sibilant hiss. “Take all of me.”
She spread her knees wider, opening herself and earning a murmur of approval as he withdrew and invaded, withdrew and invaded.
His skin was velvety and damp from exertion. His broad, powerful shoulders tapered to an unbelievably tight collection of muscles at his waist. And his bottom . . . It was her turn to moan. And then his hips began to drum, driving her into the bed with the force of his thrusts.
His body began to shake and she knew what was happening because she’d just experienced something very much like it. It thrilled her to know she could bring him a similar pleasure. His pounding became brutal—savage—and it ripped away what was left of her breath. Gone was the gentle, careful lover; in his place was a man who employed his body like a weapon—like a battering ram.
She drew up her knees and tensed her muscles, a bolt of intense pleasure shooting through her.
He gave a guttural cry, plunged himself hilt deep, and held her in a crushing embrace. The only part of him that moved was buried deep inside her, pulsing within her and filling her with the warm wash of his seed.
“Drusilla.” The word was a sigh.
She wrapped her arms around his narrow waist and held him close as the aftershocks of pleasure rippled through his body. The only sound was their ragged breathing, his slick, hard form pressing her into the mattress, crushing her. It was delicious. She could die happy.
For the first time in years—as long as she could remember—she was content. Utterly content.
Unfortunately, her contentment didn’t last long.
He pushed up onto his forearms, his face slack, his green eyes dazed. “I’m sorry. I’m crushing you.” He rolled to the side, his body abandoning hers and leaving her feeling bereft. She yearned to pull him back down on top of her. But her mind advised caution . . .
Drusilla was still embroiled in the internal debate when strong hands took her by the waist and turned and positioned her until her back was tightly nestled against his front, his hard, lightly furred chest pressed tight to her shoulders and spine. A heavy arm slid around her ribs, his hand curving possessively around one breast.
He gave a deep animal sigh of satisfaction and his thumb brushed her nipple, making Drusilla bite her lower lip to keep from making her own animal noises.
And then he fell asleep.
She lay stiffly in his embrace, listening intently as his breaths became as regular as the waves on a beach.
How could he possibly sleep? She was more awake than she’d ever been in her life. She was in a bed, unclothed, with Gabriel Marlington: the man of a thousand fantasies lying beside her. Never in a million years had she dared to hope for this—to hope for a night when he treated her not just like a wife, but like a lover—almost as a friend during that horrid supper.
A child might be forming even now as she lay in his embrace.
Tonight he’d behaved toward her as if he could imagine no other wife—as if he were pleased to have her in his arms. Did that mean he—she cut off the thought before it could even sprout. He was simply making the best of their arrangement. He was a gentleman and would not let her know what he was really feeling—which was most likely that he’d never have needed to marry her at all if he had waited only another twenty-four hours. And that he’d probably been looking forward to doing this with Lucinda Kittridge instead of Drusilla.
She jolted, the image of Gabriel doing what he’d just done to her with the beautiful Lucinda was like a mallet blow to her temple.
Gabriel twitched in his sleep and his arm tightened, his hand brushing her nipple again and turning her liquid inside. She squeezed her thighs together, thrilled but alarmed at her body’s immediate response to him. It was wonderful but . . . terrifying. When had she ever wanted somebody so much? Never. The truth was, this marriage was exactly what she’d wanted. But for him? She swallowed against the gorge rising in her throat. Drusilla was not his first choice—or even on his list of choices, most likely. He’d been forced into proposing.
He muttered something in his sleep and pulled her tight, his breathing hot and regular against her neck. It was delicious torture to lie in his arms.
Something tickled her cheek, and she reached up, stunned to find her skin wet. Tears. How was it possible to be so happy yet so miserable at the same time?
Chapter 15
Drusilla woke to an empty bed.
Bright sunlight was streaming through the windows and the clock on the nightstand said it was ten thirty.
She sat up abruptly. Ten-thirty! She blinked the sleep from her eyes and glanced around her room, frowning.
The door opened, and Drusilla squeaked, yanking the tangled sheets up around her naked chest.
“Ah, the sleeper has awakened.” Gabriel stood in the doorway, a large tray in his hands as he shut the door with one foot.
He came to a halt, an amused expression on his face.
“What—when?”
He laughed and set the tray down on the foot of the bed before fetching her discarded dressing gown and holding it open for her.
Drusilla looked from his hands to his face to her hands, which clutched the sheet up around her breasts.
“I’ll close my eyes.” He demonstrated and Drusilla scrambled out of bed, thrusting her arms into her dressing gown and then spinning around.
He was grinning down at her. “I didn’t say I’d keep them closed.”
She was too mortified to chastise him. Although why she should worry about what he was seeing this morning when he’d certainly seen everything she had last night . . .
“I’ve brought you breakfast in bed.” He gestured to her, and she climbed back in the warm bed, bolstering herself up with cushions and sitting against the carved mahogany headboard.
Drusilla looked down at the delicious assortment he’d brought. “But this is only food for one.”
He arranged the tray on her lap, his hands brushing her body as he positioned the blankets, the fresh clean smell of his damp hair teasing her nostrils, his proximity . . . dizzying.
/> “I’ve already eaten and ridden in the park while you slumbered. There,” he said, smiling down at her. “Comfortable?”
She nodded, her face hot beneath his solicitous stare. He was so beautiful and virile and irresistible in the light of day; it was difficult to look directly at him. So she turned her attention to her tea and fussed with the pot.
He pulled a chair up next to the bed and lowered his elegantly clad body.
“You should have woken me,” she said, not taking her eyes from her cup and saucer.
“I did—several times last night. Or don’t you remember?”
Her head whipped up, and he laughed at whatever he saw on her face. Her cheeks flamed like a torch and—to her utter amazement—her lips curved into an answering smile.
“There, that’s better.” He motioned to the pot. “Fletcher said you preferred tea at breakfast rather than chocolate.”
“I am not fond of chocolate.”
His eyebrows shot up.
“You find that odd?”
“Eva and Melissa will drink as much as you give them, and my mother takes it in the morning and the evening. I don’t believe I’ve met a woman who does not care for it.”
Drusilla did not want to consider what other women he might be thinking of. Instead she took a sip of the dark, steaming liquid and closed her eyes in bliss.
The sound of his chuckle made her open them again.
He wore an indulgent—almost affectionate—expression. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone enjoy tea quite so much.”
“I cannot think straight until after my first cup,” she admitted, picking up a triangle of toast and nibbling one corner.
“Ah, so if I wish to be the victor in a dispute, I should call on you before you break your fast?”
She took another sip. “I sincerely doubt you need to ambush me before breakfast to triumph over me in a discussion.”
He grinned and sat back, crossing his arms. “Oh?”
“Well, at least not in all matters.”
“You must tell me what areas you mean, and I will apply myself to studying.”
She snorted, and he threw back his head as though she had struck him. “That was a cruel blow, Mrs. Marlington. Do you doubt your husband knows how to study?”
The word husband caused a dull ache to pulse between her legs and she had a flash of his face above hers, his features not playful and smiling but taut, hard, and intense as he thrust into her, his body buried deeply inside hers . . .
She swallowed convulsively and set down her cup with a shaking hand. “I’m sure you know how to study, but I’m not sure you actually did so.”
“Ah, so precise. That is a characteristic I greatly admire in you, my dear.” Drusilla tried not to preen at what was probably not an actual compliment. “I’m afraid you are correct. Books and studying are not my strong suit.” His eyelids lowered and his nostrils flared, his mouth pulling up into a smile that was suggestive and wicked. “I prefer more physical pursuits.”
Drusilla felt woozy. “Er.”
He leaned forward. “Here, let me top up your tea.”
She watched his hands, entranced by their strength and beauty and the memory of them on her body, in her body. It was beginning to be an effort to breathe and she was grateful when he sat back.
Her eyes flickered over his clothing—skintight buff pantaloons molded to his thighs, a forest green superfine coat that followed the contours of his powerful shoulders so lovingly it might have been cast from his body. He wore Hessians rather than top boots. He was not dressed for riding but in the clothes of a man who was paying calls.
Drusilla looked up from her thorough inspection of his body to see humor glinting in his eyes, his expression that of a man who was accustomed to female homage and comfortable with it. She was torn—alternately wanting to tear off his clothing and drag him into bed with her and wanting to beat him with a big stick for turning her into such a besotted slave.
Drusilla was not a violent person and the images—both images, actually—disturbed her.
He picked a speck of something from his sleeve. Drusilla could not get enough of his elegantly shaped, long-fingered hands. Yet again she was flooded by memories of how those hands had touched, opened, entered, caressed . . .
“If you continue to look at me like that, you will never leave this bed, Mrs. Marlington.”
She glanced up and met his darkened eyes, his slightly flaring nostrils telling her he knew what she was thinking.
Drusilla opened her mouth, but had nothing to say.
His sinful lips curved. “Ah, I have rendered you speechless. I would wager that is not a common occurrence.”
“No,” she agreed with a breathless laugh. “But you seem quite, er, adept at it.”
He eyed her from beneath lowered lids. “I look forward to showing you just how adept.”
Her entire body responded to his look like a well-trained pet. Only one night and already he knew how to command her with a look.
The realization horrified her. She was . . . pathetic. He was not in love with her. If not for the incident at the Abingdon conservatory, he would still be happily pursuing the Kitten. What must he think now that he realized he’d not needed to marry Drusilla, after all? He was a gentleman, so he would never show his true feelings, but she could imagine them. He was a beautiful man who enjoyed beautiful women and was now stuck with her.
We should make the best of things. His words echoed in her mind.
She lowered her cup with a clatter. “Would you be so kind as to ring for Fletcher?”
As dismissals went, it was less than subtle. His face—taut with passion only an instant before—tightened with something else.
A notch of concern appeared between his eyes, and he leaned forward. “Is aught amiss?” He laid a hand on hers, and Drusilla started and snatched away her hand as if she’d been burned. Her violent movement set the dishes clattering on the tray.
His eyes widened slightly as he sat back in his chair, his expression changing so rapidly she could not identify all the moods.
Drusilla opened her mouth to say . . . something, but—
He stood, his face a beautiful, impassive mask. “I apologize for keeping you. I shall send your maid directly.” He dropped an abrupt bow and turned away.
Frustration at her horrid, awkward behavior was thick enough to almost choke her. Once again Drusilla opened her mouth, this time to call him back—to stop him, to apologize, but what could she say? I’m sorry I am behaving stiffly, but I love you madly and have done for almost five years. I know you are probably in love—or at least were considering marriage—with somebody else, but I cannot be sorry you were forced to marry me. Even though I know it is hopeless, I am in danger of losing myself completely and becoming your creature. I never want to leave this bed if you are in it. When you touch me, I lose what little control I have. I adore and—
He stopped, his hand resting on the door handle. “Oh, incidentally, don’t forget we are joining a party at my stepfather’s box tonight. There were also a few invitations waiting below. I’ll have Parker bring them up and leave it to your discretion to sort through them and decide which are best.” He turned without waiting for a response, and the door shut with a soft click.
Drusilla looked down at her tray, her hunger having vanished as quickly as her happiness. Why did she have to do this with him? Why?
Self-preservation, you fool. He bedded you last night because he is your husband. If you think that means anything beyond the mere physical act—that he will leave whatever mistress or mistresses he most likely has and become your devoted lover—you are a bigger fool than I believed.
Drusilla knew her relentless inner critic spoke the truth. Gabriel Marlington was the epitome of masculinity. He fenced, shot, rode, and made love like a man who’d had plenty of practice in all those activities. Why would she ever think he would stop his pursuits—either dueling or taking lovers—for a drab plain Jane like herself?
It was already going to be agonizing the first time she heard gossip of his amorous exploits. How much worse would it be if she fell into the belief that she was somehow special to him—that what they’d done together last night was just for her, for them.
“You are such a pitiful fool,” she whispered through clenched jaws. “Such a fool.”
* * *
Gabriel wished it had been some other production—or some other cast—at least when it came to two members. But it was what it was. He’d known Giselle would be onstage, but Maria’s presence had surprised him. The way things had been going, he supposed he should have expected that both his mistresses—ex-mistresses—would be performing for his wife.
His family had arrived at the theater only a few moments before the curtain rose; the evening would be tense enough without drawing matters out by engaging in the pretheater promenade.
As for dinner? Gabriel had declined an invitation from his mother to dine at Exley House, instead dinning at home with his wife for the first time. It had been a polite but stilted affair, Drusilla behaving as if their night of passionate lovemaking had never happened.
Gabriel was mystified and more than a little irritated. Why must the woman be so awkward? They’d come together last night, they’d found pleasure in each other, and they’d not engaged in a single argument.
But that didn’t appear to suit the new Mrs. Marlington.
Thankfully his mother, stepfather, Eva, Byer, and two crazy spinster friends of the marquess’s were already present when they arrived, so he and his wife didn’t need to make more awkward conversation. The entire theater had paused to watch them enter the box, and Gabriel knew that would continue for the rest of the evening.
Drusilla wore the same stiff, proud expression she’d worn this morning when he’d brought her breakfast. Who knew what went on behind that mask? Certainly not Gabriel.
She was seated between Gabriel and the marquess. Eva must still be mad at her and had not, as far as Gabriel could tell, spoken to Drusilla once since they’d arrived. In fact, his usually boisterous sister appeared rather subdued.
Hmmm, that did not bode well for somebody.
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