The Famous Heroine/The Plumed Bonnet

by Mary Balogh

  He paused with his hand still on the knob of the door after closing it. He looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Cora, my dear,” he said, “you leave me near speechless, as usual.” He relinquished his hold of the knob and came toward her. “Now what could I possibly want with my wife on my wedding night?”

  Her knees almost buckled. Certainly her stomach performed a headstand and then rolled into a tumble toss.

  “Oh,” she said, gripping her braid as if only by doing so could she keep herself upright. “Oh, Francis, how kind of you. But there is really no need, you know. You must not feel you have to, just for my sake. I shall be quite content …” She swallowed. He had come close and had set his hands on her shoulders. He was looking into her eyes.

  “Kind?” he said. “I must not feel I have to? That is remarkably generous of you, Cora. Are you frightened, by any chance?”

  “Frightened? Me?” she said. “No, of course not.” They were going to have a wedding night? “I just meant that you must not feel obliged to do this if it is distasteful to you. I will understand. I did not expect it.” She should not be too persuasive, she thought. She did not want him to go away. If she could experience this—even just once in her life—she would be content. Even if it must be with a man she did not love. She liked him enormously. That would suffice.

  One of his hands was cupping her cheek. His eyes really were decidedly blue, she thought. They were not the sort of gray that wishful thinking pretended was blue. “Because we married in haste and under some compulsion?” he said. “You expected I would think all my obligations to you fulfilled once I had given you the protection of my name, Cora? No, dear, we will be man and wife in more than just name.”

  Her knees really did go then and he had to catch her in his arms.

  “Oops,” she said and laughed. Suddenly she really did feel both nervous and self-conscious. She was so very unattractive. She was so very large. He was both elegant and graceful. And she had not thought of wearing a dressing gown over her nightgown. She had braided her hair. She must look like an overgrown twelve-year-old.

  “Cora.” His voice was very low. “It is just me, dear. We have talked and laughed and been comfortable together all afternoon and evening. And I am not one of those nasty princes or dukes or marquesses to terrify you.”

  “I am not terrified of them,” she said, “or of you. I am not, Francis.”

  He smiled and loosened his hold of her. “Unbraid your hair for me, if you please,” he said. “I have always wondered what it looks like down.”

  “Just as unruly as it looks when it is up,” she said, lifting her arms to comply with his request. “I should have had it cut. I know short hair is all the crack. But I keep thinking that if I do not like it short I will have to wait years before it is long again. Besides, Papa thinks there is something rather sinful about short hair on women. If God had wanted them with short hair, he always says, he would have made it so that it would not grow. But he never thinks that the same argument could be used of men. And of men’s beards, too.”

  She was prattling. She wished now she had not persuaded herself that he would not come. She wished she had prepared her mind, planned what she would say.

  He took her hands away from her hair when she had unbraided it and was combing through it with her fingers. He did it himself. She could feel herself blushing. She had never thought to blush before Francis.

  “Oh, Cora,” he said, “it is beautiful. It is a shame you cannot always wear it down. Though I must admit I feel smug at the thought that only I will see it thus. I can sympathize with sultans and their harems. Don’t ever have it cut. If you ever do, I shall take you over my knee and beat you for gross disobedience.”

  She threw back her head and laughed merrily. “You may try it if you fancy the idea of two black eyes and a broken nose and smashed teeth,” she said.

  He was grinning too and then chuckling. “This is better,” he said. “I thought your eyes were about to start from your head, Cora, and your cheeks were about to burst into flame. Come to bed.”

  It was a good antidote to laughter, that last sentence. She wondered if he really wanted her or if this was very much a matter of duty to him. It made little difference, she supposed. It was something he had decided to do and she was not going to argue further. She was going to enjoy the experience while it was being offered. Perhaps this would be the one and only time. She climbed into bed while he removed his dressing gown and blew out the candles.

  This was her wedding night, she thought. She set herself deliberately to enjoy it, as she had set herself earlier to enjoy her wedding day.

  * * *

  IT WAS A necessity to desire her enough to consummate their marriage. He had married her that day and owed her certain duties. He owed her his body and his seed. It was necessary that he make love to her often enough to enable her to perform her duty of filling his nursery and getting his heir.

  But he felt almost ashamed of the extent of his desire for her. She was—or had been—Cora Downes, he reminded himself when he entered her room and saw her standing at the window, dressed only in a thin cotton nightgown. She was the woman he had agreed to bring into fashion, the woman for whom he had set himself to find a husband. She was the woman whom farce followed closely. The woman he had been forced, much against his inclination, into marrying because twice he had inadvertently compromised her. She was not the woman he loved.

  And yet, as he dealt with her nervousness, he found himself wanting her very much indeed. And as he watched her unbraid her hair and then pushed aside her hands so that he could smooth it out with his own fingers, he felt himself harden into arousal far sooner than he would have wanted to do so. Her long, loose hair was the one extra ingredient, missing until now, that made her finally and magnificently beautiful. Not in any remotely delicate way. He found himself thinking of Amazons—and then she was threatening to black his eyes and break his nose and his teeth in response to his teasing threat to spank her.

  She was wonderful.

  She was also a virgin and very, very innocent, he suspected. His mind went to determined war with his body as he climbed into bed beside her and slid one arm beneath her neck to turn her against him. He must be gentle with her. He must not frighten or disgust her. He must hurt her as little as he possibly could. He must be patient.

  He did not kiss her. With his free hand he caressed her face and her neck.

  “Mm,” she said, and she put her arm about his waist and wriggled closer to him. He paused and drew a few deep breaths. His mind was threatening to lose the battle.

  He slid his hand down her back, pausing at her waist, continuing more lightly to her buttocks, moving up over her hip to her breast. She moved back a little from him not to impede his progress.

  He felt as if he had been plunged into a bath of steam. She was warm and shapely, generously curved in all the right places, soft where she was supposed to be soft, firm where she was supposed to be firm. Her breasts were large and youthfully firm. He cupped one in his hand, tested the nipple with the pad of his thumb. It hardened under his touch.

  “Oh,” she said and she started panting quite audibly.

  He opened the buttons of her nightgown, going slowly in order to give himself a chance to impose control on himself and to give her a chance to know what he was about to do. He fondled her other breast beneath the fabric of her gown.

  “Ah,” she said. “Ah.”

  She had forgotten her nervousness. He moved his hand down inside the gown, flat over her stomach, down over the warm hair to curl into warmer depths. He did not attempt any more intimate exploration. She was breathing in gasps against his shoulder.

  It was time, he thought. He could teach her gradually over time more about foreplay. But he would not frighten her again tonight. He removed his hand and reached down to draw up her nightgown—up over her legs to her hips. He paused there, but he gave in to desire and raised it up over her breasts and turned her onto her back.

>   He could hear the blood thundering in his ears. He could not remember a time when he had been so hotly aroused—not that he spent a great deal of time trying to remember such an occasion.

  She was all magnificent, warm woman, he thought as he came on top of her, nudged his knees between hers, and spread her legs wide. There was no resistance. He gritted his teeth, pressed his eyes shut, and imposed iron control on himself as he slid his hands beneath her to hold her firm while he mounted her. He moved slowly, pushing inward to the barrier and slowly yet firmly beyond it to embed himself deeply in her. She whimpered once, quietly. He lifted some of his weight onto his forearms so that she would be able to breathe beneath him. He waited, gathering his breath and control.

  And then she took charge.

  He felt her legs slide up the outsides of his own—long, slim, smooth legs, which raised his temperature as they moved. And then she lifted them to twine about his own. And tilted her hips and pushed against him so that he seemed even deeper. He was alarmed at the sensations she aroused in him. He raised his head and looked down at her. His eyes had accustomed themselves enough to the darkness that he could see her head thrown back on the pillow, her eyes closed, her hair all about her face and shoulders. Her mouth was open. Even as he watched she pressed her shoulders back into the pillow and thrust up her bosom to touch his chest with her hardened nipples.

  Something snapped in him—his control. His body had won the war.

  “Cora,” he said with a groan, lowering his face into her hair, gritting his teeth again, shutting his eyes tightly again. But nothing helped. His hands came beneath her once again and he moved in her with deep, convulsive, swift strokes.

  It was all over in moments. He thrust deeply and spilled and gushed into her.

  Like a schoolboy with his first woman, he thought when thought returned after a few seconds of oblivion. No, that was insulting to schoolboys. His first woman had had to coax him, gauche and terrified, to climax.

  He felt deeply ashamed. He disengaged from her, lifted himself off her to lie beside her. He rested one arm across his eyes and tried to stop panting.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “I am so very sorry, Cora.”

  He hoped he had not hurt her badly or shocked her too deeply. But he must have done both. At the age of thirty he had been gauchely excited by a woman’s well-endowed body. His wife’s. He had had women who were marvelously skilled at their profession, and had never relinquished his control. No, he had had to reserve that ignominy for his wife’s bed. On their wedding night. While he was in the process of taking her virginity.

  Her hand burrowed its way into his. “It is all right, Francis,” she said. “Don’t distress yourself. I understand. I do.” She lifted his hand and held it against her cheek. She turned her head and kissed the back of it. “I do understand,” she said. “And I do not mind at all. You must not think I do. I am very fond of you just as you are of me. You do not have to pretend for me. I understand.”

  He was not sure he understood what it was she understood or what it was he need not pretend to. Sexual expertise? Well, he had just proved that he was sadly lacking on that score. He could not reply immediately. He merely squeezed her hand slightly.

  She was quite magnificent, he thought. If only he could get his desire for such a sexual feast under control, he would be the most fortunate of husbands. This was his for a lifetime. She was his for a lifetime. It somehow did not seem right that he did not love her. He thought fleetingly of Samantha, but ruthlessly suppressed the thought. It was certainly not right to think about her. He would be far better employed cultivating an affection for his wife to match his physical desire for her. He already was fond of her. He had never been in any doubt about that.

  He did not want to come to crave her only like this. He had never wanted a marriage of just this. He wanted friendship and emotional intimacy and partnership and parenthood as well as sexual satisfaction. None of which was impossible with Cora, except perhaps the second. He must work on the second.

  He should have left her bed and returned to his own, he thought when it was too late to act on the thought. He was warm and comfortable and very close to sleep.

  What was it that she understood? What was it that she did not mind? What was it he need not pretend to?

  Lord Francis slept, his one arm still over his eyes, his other hand held against Cora’s cheek.

  FOR A FEW minutes she was horribly disappointed. It was all over—so soon. Almost before she had started to enjoy it. And it might never happen again. He would not wish to do it with her ever again.

  She had been too eager, perhaps. She had scared him, disgusted him. But she had not been able to help herself. He had lain down beside her and set his arm about her and she had been instantly aware of his warmth and his firmly muscled, splendidly proportioned body. He had felt so very masculine. And his hand, moving first over her face, and then over her body, and finally over the most private parts beneath her nightgown had excited her almost beyond thought. She had forgotten entirely that he was—well, that he was not as other men were.

  She had wanted the rest of it so eagerly, so hungrily. When he had lifted her nightgown and come on top of her, she had hardly waited, as any modest bride would, for him to part her legs. She had opened for him. What had followed had been indescribably wonderful. She had expected it to feel good. But she had never imagined the sensation of stretching, as if she was really too narrow but he would forge a passage anyway. The pain she had expected. But it had been over in a moment almost before she had been able to feel it as pain. And he had come deeper. That had been the most wonderful part of all. She had never imagined such depth. She really had not dreamed there could be that much room inside her. But there was—she had even coaxed him deeper.

  She had been so very excited. She had known there was more to come. She had known there was ecstasy to come. From sheer instinct she had moved her body into position to feel the ecstasy. She had expected it to take a long time. She had heard that men derived great pleasure from this. There had been little time for much pleasure yet.

  Then he had started to move, again with unimagined force. But before she had even begun to enjoy it or to somehow fit herself to it so that she could partake of the pleasure, it was all over. He had stopped suddenly, pushing even more deeply into her, she had felt increased heat deep inside, and he had gradually relaxed on top of her.

  It had all been over. She had felt deeply disappointed.

  Until she had heard his apology. Until she remembered. It had not been possible to remember while it was happening. He had such a very masculine body—not that she had any with which to compare it.

  She pushed disappointment aside in her concern for his feelings. She felt a welling of the now-familiar tenderness and protectiveness. He had done this for her. All of it. He had married her and brought her here and done this to her all because he wanted to protect her from disgrace with the ton. Really, it had been all her fault. If she had not been so foolishly terrified at meeting the Prince of Wales, Francis would not have had to take her out onto that balcony when there was no one out there to act as chaperon. If she had not so foolishly fallen for that little boy’s pathetic story at Vauxhall, he would not have had to come after her and comfort her and be caught with his arms about her.

  It was all her fault.

  And through it all he had acted as the perfect gentleman. Not only for the sake of society, but for her sake too. He had known that without a consummated marriage she would feel less of a woman and a failure as a wife. And so he had consummated it. And had hated every moment of it.

  She was so very unattractive. She was too tall and too large everywhere. It was no wonder … But then even an attractive woman would not appeal to Francis.

  She would not allow it to happen again. She would somehow convince him that it really did not matter to her. But the very thought brought unexpected tears welling to her eyes. Just a matter of minutes ago she had told herself that if sh
e could experience this but once in her life she would be contented. But she knew now how wrong she had been to think that. It had been so wonderful, so very, very wonderful even if it had ended in disappointment. The prospect of never experiencing it again made her feel dreadfully bleak. She sighed aloud and turned her head to lay her lips against Francis’s hand again.

  She could not sleep. And she could not get comfortable. She turned onto her side facing him and onto her back again. And again onto her side, all the while holding his hand. And then the thought came to her in a flash of unwelcome insight—the thought that would doom her to an entirely sleepless night, she knew.

  She had fallen in love with him.

  All this time she had been telling herself that she enjoyed his company, that he was easy to talk with and laugh with, that she was a little fond of him. And all the while she had been falling in love with him.

  But being in love under the circumstances was a little painful.

  No, really it was quite, quite painful.

  What a stupid, brainless thing to have allowed herself to do.

  Cora sighed once more and tried to find comfort for her cheek against his hand.

  14

  ORD FRANCIS WOKE UP WHEN A SUNBEAM AND HIS right eye decided to occupy the same spot on the bed. He blinked and moved his head—and realized with a start that he was at Sidley and, more specifically, in his wife’s bed. At surely a far later hour than the one at which he usually got up. He was surprised to find that he had slept deeply through the night.

  He turned his head gingerly, hoping that his sudden movement had not woken Cora. Perhaps he could get himself out of her bed and out of her room without disturbing her.

  She was not there.

  He sat up, feeling remarkably foolish. His wife had got up on the morning after her wedding, leaving him to sleep on? Was not the situation usually reversed? But he might have known that Cora would turn the tables on him. She was probably out and about by now, running the estate.