Gwen shifted to look into his eyes, sliding her body slightly over his with a seductive skill she didn’t know she had. At once she felt the distinct evidence of his arousal beneath her and realized she wasn’t the least bit frightened but rather excited. “She says they like this.”
She cupped his face in her hands and met his lips with hers. His mouth opened to hers, and for a long moment she did nothing but taste him. He tasted slightly of brandy and perhaps vanilla, and she recognized it as the scent that lingered in his room. And tasted as well of heat and desire. She deepened her kiss, and felt him shift and his arms wrap around her, pulling her tighter to him. His tongue found hers, and a delighted shock surged through her and caught at her breath.
He snagged her gown and pulled it upward until the evening air whispered over the backs of her legs. His hands found her bare flesh and his fingers teased along her legs and higher until he cupped her buttocks in his hands. And still her lips clung to his and she fell into a glorious abyss of sensation that was as yet no more than a promise. She pulled her mouth from his and moved to sit up, once again straddling his hips, his arousal hard beneath the covers underneath her.
“Now what?” His breath was labored.
“Clothing, I should think.” She yanked her gown over her head and tossed it aside. In some lone, still rational part of her mind, she noted her distinct lack of modesty but she no longer cared. Some demon far more powerful than mere maidenly reserve had her in its grasp and she wanted, she needed…more.
“Excellent.” He gasped and his hands grasped her waist, then trailed slowly upward to caress her breasts.
She moaned and her head fell back. His hands moved over her breasts, and his thumbs toyed with her nipples, now hard beneath his skillful touch. And she wondered that she had ever had the least bit of hesitation. And wondered as well how much sheer sensation she could endure. And what an amazing endurance it was.
Without warning he sat up and caught her in his arms, his mouth meeting hers with a demand and an urgency that could not be denied. An urgency she shared and reveled in. He shifted and kicked off the covers and entwined his legs with hers, his lean, hard body pressed tight against her. He pulled his lips from hers and kissed her throat and the side of her neck to a point she never suspected was at all sensitive just below her ears. His voice was low and labored. “There is no turning back now, Miss Townsend.”
“Lady Pennington.” She could barely gasp out the words. “If you please.”
“Oh, I please.” His words panted against her skin. “Lady Pennington. Gwen.”
His hands and his mouth roamed over her as if she were an unknown land and he an ardent adventurer. He explored and surveyed and discovered and she could not touch him enough, taste him enough, feel the searing heat of his body against her mouth and her hands enough. His hand slipped between her legs to touch that part of her she had never given much thought to. A shock of pleasure so intense it arched her back shot through her, and she cried out.
“Marcus!” She gripped his shoulders tightly. “That is…I don’t…oh my…”
“Not part of your instructions?” His voice was thick with passion.
“Perhaps it was mentioned.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. Marcus certainly knew what he was doing. She wondered that women survived such exquisite pleasure. Raw and intense, it spread in hard waves from his touch through every inch of her and stoked a burning need deep inside. A fire growing ever hotter and higher.
She struggled for breath and clutched at him. “I fear I may be a tart after all.”
“Thank God,” he murmured, his lips again claiming hers.
He swept her into a spiral of increasing sensation and with it swept away all rational thought. She existed only in the touch of his hand, the feel of his lips, the reality of his body pressing against hers.
She felt his fingers slick and wet slide into her and marveled that it was not at all unpleasant but somehow right and proper and yet not nearly enough. She throbbed against his hand and yearned, burned for more.
He removed his hand and at once positioned himself between her legs. He hesitated, and she stared into his eyes, darkened with the desire she shared.
“Gwen, this might be—”
“I know and it doesn’t matter. I want”—she drew his lips back to hers—“you.”
He reached between them and guided himself into her with a slow, gentle pressure. She knew full well there could be pain and no longer cared. It seemed a small price to pay for such pleasure. He entered her, filled her, and she noted that he had not seemed quite this large with the covers between them. Still, it was an odd sensation but not bad. Not bad at all. He paused and she realized he had reached what Colette had called la barrière de l’amour. He drew back, then thrust forward hard and fast and unrelenting. A sharp pain stabbed through her. She sucked in her breath and clenched her teeth. She felt distinctly impaled, and it hurt.
“Perhaps I’m not a tart after all,” she said with an odd squeak in her voice.
“Bloody hell, Gwen, I am sorry.” He swallowed hard and stared at her. “We can stop if this is too—”
“No, it will be fine in a moment.” There wasn’t the least bit of conviction in her voice. “I think.” Colette had been right about everything else, and Gwen prayed she was right about this too.
He lay inside her for a long moment and the pain eased. She moved tentatively beneath him, and it seemed to help. He started to slide gently back and forth within her, and it helped a great deal. The fire that had been building inside her rekindled, and she matched her movements to his. It helped a great deal indeed. In truth, it was rather remarkable.
He thrust faster and harder, and she arched upward to meet his body with her own. To welcome. To consume. What vague pain still lingered melded with this unimagined, newfound pleasure and added to the intensity of their coupling. Her existence expanded to obliterate the rest of the world and shrank to nothing beyond wild joy and pure sensation. He stoked the fire that seared within her ever hotter and ever higher, and she wondered if one could die from absolute pleasure and welcome the glory of it.
Without warning the flames within her burst in waves of hot, unimagined bliss, and she cried out and dug her fingers into his shoulders and felt him shudder with her.
It lasted forever and was far and away too brief.
Still, in some part of her mind not fogged with sensation, she vowed she would not, she could not allow the passion and intense emotion of what was not nearly as inconvenient as she had thought, and far more wonderful than she had been told, overwhelm her. Not to let all this mean more than it was. It was passion. Lust. Nothing more than that.
It was certainly not love.
Even now she was determined not to love him. Not to give up that last vestige of control over her own life.
And it would be so easy to love him.
But women in love were fools, and she would not join their ranks no matter how much she wanted to.
Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if seven and a half years with this man would be nearly long enough.
Chapter 10
A man’s previous experience is important only insofar as it guarantees he knows what he is doing. And guarantees as well that he does it with a certain amount of skill. Such things may be improved with practice but simply cannot be taught.
Colette de Chabot
“You did that very well.” Gwen rested her chin on Marcus’s chest and gazed up at him. Starlight drifted in from the windows with the breeze to cast a luminous glow on her face and reflect in her eyes. “Or at least, given what I was told to expect, I think you did that very well. I was quite impressed.”
Marcus tried not to sound as smug as he felt. Or as satisfied. “Thank you. I do what I can.”
“I daresay you have a lot of experience.”
“Some,” he said cautiously.
She quirked a skeptical brow.
“Some,” he repeated firmly. In his expe
rience it was never wise to give one’s current lover too much information about one’s previous lovers.
“With many women?” Her manner was offhand, belying the danger lurking in her words.
“Some.” Nor was it smart to reveal how many previous lovers there were. Women were exceedingly strange about information like that. If, in their estimation, a man had too few lovers, his nature was in question. Too many and his character was at stake.
She widened her eyes innocently. “A great many?”
“I have never particularly considered it a great many, although I do think a great many itself is rather vague.”
“How many then? Exactly?”
“First of all, my dear Lady Pennington, a gentleman does not reduce such things to something as impersonal as statistics. In addition, it is neither proper nor honorable either to keep some sort of tally or to reveal it. Furthermore, such things are never discussed with ladies, particularly one’s wife.”
“Really?” She shook her head thoughtfully. “I should think a wife would be the one lady you could discuss such things with.”
“Then your thinking would be wrong,” he said in a firm tone he hoped clearly conveyed the end of this particular topic. Not that he was confident she would pay any attention.
Even in the faint light he could see the gleam in her eye. “Then what is appropriate to discuss with a wife?”
“I’m not entirely certain, never having had a wife before.” He tightened his arms around her and rolled over to trap her beneath him. “This, I should think”—he nuzzled the base of her throat—“is always an appropriate subject for discussion.”
“Is it?” she murmured. “What else?”
“Oh, I don’t know. This perhaps.” He ran a line of light kisses up to a point just beneath her ear he had found was exceptionally sensitive, and earned a shiver from her for his troubles. He couldn’t resist a satisfied grin. “And possibly this—”
“Marcus.” She nudged him up and met his gaze, the starlight reflecting the far too serious gleam in her eyes. “I need to arrange for new clothes. An entirely new wardrobe really. All of my clothes are dreadful, you said so yourself.”
“Did I?” He stifled a sigh of disappointment, rolled to his side, ignored the growing stiffness between his legs, and propped his head in his hand. “When did I say that?”
“Perhaps you didn’t say it exactly but you definitely implied it.”
“Did I?” he said, idling tracing a line with his finger from her throat to the valley between her breasts and the point where the sheet prevented further exploration.
“I shall need funds. I believe you mentioned an allowance.”
“Yes, of course.” He slipped his finger beneath the sheet and ran it lightly over the swell of her breast. “We shall arrange for whatever you want in the morning.”
“Excellent.” Her voice was a shade unsteady, and he tried not to grin. She was not as unaffected by his touch as she might have him believe. “I do appreciate it.”
“You are now the Countess of Pennington.” He pushed the sheet lower to reveal her breasts and leaned close to take her nipple in his mouth. He murmured against her skin. “You should dress accordingly.” He took her nipple gently between his teeth, and she gasped softly, the sensitive flesh puckering and hardening under the flick of his tongue.
Her voice had a breathless edge. “Your mother said she would help me.”
He heaved a resigned sigh and lifted his head. “Did she?”
“Yes.” Gwendolyn cleared her throat. “I believe we shall get along quite well.”
“My mother has never been adverse to spending money, especially when it is not hers.” He eyed her curiously. “I gather you do not intend on spending your own newfound fortune?”
“Don’t be absurd, Marcus, I am saving my money for”—she hesitated—“the future. Yes, that’s it, I’m saving my money for the future,” she repeated firmly.
“Your future is assured,” he said mildly. “The biggest threat to my fortune has vanished with our wedding. However, this whole incident has made me reassess what plans I have made for the future, at least in terms of finances. I have already begun looking into a number of excellent investments that should serve to strengthen the Pennington fortune well into the next generations. I shall not be caught in a trap like this one again.”
“A trap like having to marry me?”
He winced. “I have done it again, haven’t I? I did not mean it that way at all. I simply meant, I do not want to ever again find myself in a situation where I have no choice.” He leaned close and brushed his lips across hers. “In truth, this is rather a lovely trap.”
“Thus far it is indeed much better than I anticipated.” She smiled in that smug manner of women who have been well and truly satisfied.
“Indeed it is,” he murmured and gathered her closer.
“Was he right?”
Marcus stifled his growing excitement and forced a casual note to his voice. “Was who right about what?”
“Lord Berkley. Was he right about…” She shook her head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
“Right about what?”
“It’s not important.” Her tone indicated that it, whatever it might be, was indeed important. Still, it could certainly wait until morning.
“Very well then.” He ran his hand along the curve of her hip. Her skin was warm and silken and inviting. His fingers drifted to the cleft between her legs.
She sucked in a short breath. “I should warn you I do not plan on falling in love with you.”
He ignored her, his fingers teasing the damp curls between her legs. “Yes, yes, I know, you’ve mentioned that. Love is a trap for women.”
Her legs parted and her breath was labored. “In spite of the fact that this was really quite, um…”
“Exciting?” He delved deeper to touch that part of her only he had known. “Then I gather lust between us is acceptable? Passion, desire, that sort of thing.”
“Oh my, yes. Lust. Passion.” She struggled to get out the words. “Very exciting. And I think perhaps we should do it again.”
“Do you?” His fingers slipped over her, already wet with desire. He shifted to press his erection harder against her heated flesh and bent to nibble her shoulders
“Oh, absolutely. Without hesitation.” Her words were barely more than a sigh, and he sensed her struggle to maintain a coherent thought. “Marcus, you should not fall in love with me either.”
“As you wish.” His words whispered against her skin. “Would it relieve you to know I have planned nothing of the sort?”
“Yes, goodness…” She swallowed hard. “Actually it…would…”
“Your shoulders are quite delectable.” He increased the rhythm of his fingers, and her body tensed beside his.
“Is that what you told Lord Berkley?”
He smiled. She absolutely refused to let go of anything. “Berkely’s shoulders aren’t the least bit delectable.”
“Of course not.” Her voice was barely audible, and she rocked slightly against his hand. She was very close to losing control completely. “So then, we are agreed. Lust is acceptable—”
“Preferable even.” He raised his head to watch the play of emotion on her face.
“However, love is to be avoided.” Her eyes were closed and her lips parted and she looked as if she were waiting for something quite wonderful.
“Agreed. However, I should warn you I do rather like you.”
She arched upward. “Do you?”
“Indeed I do.” He pulled her to lie on top of him and slid gently into her. “Quite a lot, I should think.”
She planted her hands on either side of his head, pushed herself up, and stared down at him. “Do you? Why?”
“I’m not entirely sure.” He grasped her waist and began to slowly thrust upward. She moaned and bit her bottom lip. “But it seems a good idea, to like the woman you have married.”
“A very good
idea,” she said under her breath and matched her movements to his.
“Very good indeed.” He moved in an easy, deliberate manner.
She was tight and slick and enveloped him in heat and sensation. He resisted the urge to move faster, to thrust harder, his restraint deepening his need, her desire. He shifted her until she sat upright upon him, and slid his hands up to curl around the underside of her breasts. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly open, and an expression of exquisite tension shadowed her face. Watching her react to his every move, every touch, and her discovery of passion increased his own. His thumbs flicked over her nipples, and she uttered something that might have been a moan or a sigh. It echoed through her and into him, and his restraint snapped.
He pulled her down on top of him and rolled over to pinion her beneath him. She arched upward and wrapped her legs around his hips. He thrust into her, and she met his increasing demands with her own. He could feel her throb around him, feel himself pulse within her. Joined together as one, he no longer knew where he ended and she began. Faster and harder they rocked together until she tightened around him and spasms shuddered through her and through him and his senses shattered with the release of his body.
And he marveled at the intensity of this physical act that he had always enjoyed, yet never had it seemed so complete before. So all consuming and perhaps perfect. So right.
And wondered as well if it wasn’t merely his body involved but his heart.
Some time later she slept curled against him. The nicest warmth spread from her body to his and crept into his soul. It struck him that this woman was a perfect fit. Not simply physically, although she was altogether more passionate and eager than he had expected or even hoped for, but in something of a spiritual sense. It was a ridiculous concept, as if all that nonsense he had spouted about fate and what was right and proper was the truth and not the ramblings of a man desperate to save his fortune and future.
Love with the Proper Husband Page 16