He sat up straighter. “Why would you ask?” he said, though he knew good and well why.
Up went that questioning dark brow. “You have been watching me with all the tenderness of a butcher eying a suckling pig.”
That startled him into a laugh. “I can assure you that butchery is as far from my thoughts as it could possibly be.”
She raised a hand to her throat and fingered the garnet cross there. “Then why do you stare?” she asked. “If you are having second thoughts about the marriage, then you might have considered that before you broadcast our marriage to Sir Sidney.”
“You worry too much,” he said, hoping his smile took the sting from the words. “I am having no second thoughts about you or the marriage, and Sir Sidney Phillips is the last thing on my mind.”
“Then what?” she demanded, her cheeks growing pink, as if she had begun to guess the tenor of his thoughts.
“What, indeed,” he said, standing and reaching for her hand to pull her up with him.
The servants had long ago cleared the dishes from their supper, and Isabella had dismissed her maid for the night.
“Isabella,” Trevor said, bringing her closer to him. “I would like very much to make love to you.”
She looked down, and he saw her cheeks grow pinker.
When she didn’t respond he bent his knees so that he could look into her downturned face. “What’s amiss?” he asked quietly. “Bridal nerves?”
But she shushed him. “It’s not that,” she whispered, her voice thready, a far cry from her usual confident tones. “I … that is to say … my…”
He longed to fill in the words for her, but he had no notion of what she was trying to say. So, painful as it was, he waited.
“… my husband,” she began, taking a deep breath and turning her face up to meet Trevor’s gaze. “My husband said that I wasn’t very good at it,” she said quickly. “Bedsport, I mean. So I am willing, but I hope you won’t be disappointed if I am not quite as good at it as you would wish.”
Trevor was silent as he took in her words and fumed over the impossibility of throttling a dead man. He would never have guessed that a woman of Isabella’s confidence and beauty could feel so utterly vulnerable about her ability to please a man in bed. Her very presence there would be enough to satisfy many. However, he admitted to himself that he would like very much to see all of that self-possession dissolve under the application of relentless pleasure.
Even so, he could disabuse her of one notion at least. “There is no possible way that I could ever be disappointed in you, Isabella,” he said, making sure to look her squarely in the eye. Her gaze was worried but steady. “No possible way,” he repeated. “You are a lovely, passionate woman. And I expect nothing more tonight than for you to be honest with me. If you dislike something, tell me. If you like something, tell me that as well. But don’t ever think that I come to our bed with expectations of you. This isn’t a schoolroom test that you can pass or fail.”
He was frustrated to see that there was still doubt in her eyes, but he could hardly expect for her to simply slough off the years with that bastard she’d been married to in the space of an hour. He would simply have to work at winning her trust.
“Do you understand?” he asked, his voice sharp with frustration—not at her but at the situation. “Isabella?”
She nodded. “I suppose,” she said her lips pursed. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
That surprised a laugh from him. Pulling her closer to him, he kissed her, willing her to relax against him, even as his own heartbeat accelerated. Slipping an arm around her waist, he pressed into her softness. Nibbling at her lower lip, he was pleased when she opened her mouth and let him in, welcoming his tongue into the heat of her mouth. Once, twice, he stroked into her, sliding his hands down to grasp her bottom, pulling her against his erection.
Her arms twined around his neck, and her fingers thrust into his hair, pulling his mouth closer as she began to stroke back.
“Don’t ever think,” he breathed out, kissing a path down her throat, “that I don’t find this … you … maddeningly attractive.”
As he wended his way toward her breast, he felt her hand pulling him against her and gave a silent cheer. “This, Isabella,” he said, thumbing the nipple of one breast while he lightly bit the peak of the other through her gown, “this is us together. No past lovers, no past husbands, just us two together.”
She gasped and clenched his shoulders. “Trevor,” she exhaled. “Just us.”
He took her hand and pressed it against the front of his breeches. “Feel what you do to me, Izzy,” he said. “This is how you excite me.”
She looked at him, then, her eyes wide with the knowledge that he could want her that much.
Cursing, he pulled her hand away and gathered her up into his arms and crossed on unsteady feet to the door to his bedchamber. It was probably not up to the usual standards of the Duke of Ormonde, but he bloody well didn’t give a damn at the moment. Like an ancient chieftain claiming his mate, he lowered her to the sheets, pleased at the mix of excitement and hesitation in her eyes.
Silently he tugged her to her feet, turned her about, and began unbuttoning the seemingly endless line of buttons down her back. Finally she stepped out of her gown, her corset was dispensed with, and she wore nothing but her shift and stockings.
Turning in his arms, she still managed to look regal in her undress. He could see her hands twitch, perhaps anxious to cover her breasts, but she kept them by her sides. He looked. He could not help himself. Gazing hungrily at her nipples dark through the thin material of her chemise and the dark triangle between her legs. It was erotic as hell and he was incapable of looking away.
“Your turn,” she said huskily, that questioning brow quirking again. And he quickly dispensed with his coats, cravat, and shirt. Sitting on the side of the bed, he set about removing his boots but stopped at her staying hand.
“Let me help,” she said, going to her knees before him and grasping the heel of his right boot and tugging. After a bit of a fight, the boot gave up, and she removed the other one. He thought wistfully of the possibilities of her on her knees before him and then berated himself for being a selfish oaf. Taking her hand, he pulled her to her feet, and lifting her again, he deposited her onto the cool sheets.
Reclining like a royal concubine on the bed, she raised her arms to him. “Come,” she said, licking her lips that were already reddened from his kisses. “Come to me.”
Shucking his breeches, he did just that, stretching out on his side next to her. He felt his face redden when she looked down at the evidence of his desire for her, her eyes widening with surprise and just a little hesitation.
“It will fit,” he said hastily. “I assure you.”
She gurgled with laughter. “I wasn’t thinking that, you oaf.”
“Then what?” he demanded with a mock growl, flipping her onto her back and pressing that very impressive erection against her.
“If you must know,” she said primly, “I was thinking of Lucifer.”
He paused. “You mean the dark lord? Satan? Old Scratch? Beelzebub?”
“Technically he is the fallen angel from Paradise Lost,” she corrected. “But no, that is not who I am referring to. Lucifer was a stallion on my father’s country farm.”
“Ah,” Trevor said with a grin. “So you are comparing me to a stallion. I can approve of that, I think. But what precisely were you thinking of about Lucifer?”
She bit her lip. “Well, he was a stallion, as I said. So he spent a great deal of time … er…”
“Doing what stallions do?” Trevor asked politely, looking with fascination at the tiny freckles covering her nose. He hadn’t taken her for a country girl, but it would seem that his new bride contained many facets he had yet to uncover.
“Yes.” She nodded. “And he was quite fond of me. And he would do anything to be near me. I wasn’t allowed to ride him, but he opened every
gate, got past every restraint, to simply be near me.”
“And you fear that I’ll be like Lucifer?”
She smiled, reaching up to touch a lock of auburn hair that had fallen onto his brow. “No,” she said softly. “I was thinking of how constant he was to me, but how inconstant he was with the mares. He had a veritable harem. And he was loyal to none of them.”
“Ah.” Damn. It was back to her husband then. “Isabella,” Trevor said, leaning in to kiss her. “I am no saint, but nor am I the man your former husband was.”
“But you are a man,” she said, her eyes sad.
“Yes,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. “And I promise you that I will not play you false. We might not have married in a traditional ceremony, but I intend to keep all the vows of the Church of England marriage ceremony.”
He lifted her left hand and kissed the fourth finger where his ring rested. “With this ring,” he said against her palm, “I thee wed.”
A single tear beaded up at the corner of her eye, which he kissed away. “With my body,” he whispered, grasping the bottom of her shift and sliding it up and over her head, “I thee worship.” He gasped at the feel of skin on skin and was gratified to feel her swift intake of breath. “With all my worldy goods,” he said, sliding down over her body, scraping the beginnings of his beard over the softness of her skin, breathing in the scent of her, gathering her knees in his hands, and opening her body wide to his gaze, “I thee endow.” He caressed the soft skin of her thighs as he kissed the heart of her.
* * *
Isabella stared in disbelief at the glint of candlelight in Trevor’s dark russet hair as he kissed a trail from one inner thigh to the other. “Your Grace,” she said, closing her eyes as she felt his teeth graze a particularly sensitive spot, “you need not … that is to say … it’s not necessary for you to— Oh! God, do that again!”
“Liked that, did you?” She could imagine his expression as he said the words, but was too overcome with sensation to comment. Her first husband had never been particularly interested in her pleasure during their bedchamber sessions, as she thought of them. But Trevor, it would seem, was determined to ensure that she felt as much as he did.
He teased her relentlessly with his mouth, then, when she rocked against him, with his fingers. Unable to control her response, Isabella heard herself whimper, but by that point she didn’t care. Once, twice, he thrust into her while at the same time he teased that sensitive place with just the right degree of pressure. Never in her life had she felt so out of control, so lost to all sense of restraint. Under his hands she felt savage and desperate. And before she could stop herself, Isabella found herself bucking against his hand like a madwoman. Over and over again until she splintered into a million fragments. Like a fireworks display she’d once seen at Vauxhall.
Spent, she lay there, her legs splayed like a common strumpet, breathing hard, waiting to come back to herself. She felt her new husband kiss her once on the belly, then crawl up the bed to recline next to her, his head propped up on one arm.
“I can feel you looking at me,” she said, not opening her eyes. She could also feel his very impressive erection pressing against her hip.
“I am admiring you,” he corrected, kissing her on the nose. “Who would have thought all that passion was lurking beneath your cool, collected surface?”
She peeked out at him from between her lashes. “Passion or wantonness?” she asked softly.
“Either,” he said, caressing her breast. “It’s an asset certainly. No matter what you call it.”
She looked up at him. “What manner of man are you?” she asked, her mouth twisting in a wry approximation of a smile. “You bed me at the first opportunity, but then you delay your own pleasure in order to give me mine. I think you must be attempting to become a saint.”
He laughed, and for the first time she noticed that perhaps his easy demeanor wasn’t as easy as she’d previously thought. “I’m no saint, Izzy,” he said, sliding over to cover her body with hers. In a pantomime of savagery, he scraped his teeth over her neck, stroking his hands down her arms to grasp her hands and in one swift motion bringing them above her head and holding them there with one hand. “Not at all,” he continued, pinching the peak of her breast lightly while he kissed his way up her neck to her mouth, where he took her lips in a deep kiss. Isabella could taste her own essence and was aroused. “I’m a man, that’s all,” he whispered against her mouth while he pulled her knee up and poised himself at her entrance. She bent her other knee to open herself more fully, and in one swift thrust he seated himself fully within her. The attention he’d paid to her earlier had ensured that her own moisture eased his way, but even so, he was indeed a big man and it had been over a year since Isabella had been with a man. She welcomed the intrusion, however. Welcomed the act that joined her with this man as his wife.
“Izzy,” he said against her neck as they reveled in their joining. “Sweet. So sweet.”
Isabella would have stroked him, but her hands were still imprisoned above her head. But something about the position intrigued her. She’d been dominated by a man before, but this she knew was just a game. Unable to touch him with her hands, then, she widened her knees and dug in her heels, allowing him to sink farther into her. And when she thought she’d go mad from wanting, he began to move.
Lifting herself, she met him thrust for thrust, and once again Isabella felt her excitement build. She reveled in every sensation: the scent of Trevor’s sandalwood soap, of his skin, of his sweat mingling with hers. Through her lowered lashes she watched the play of his muscles beneath his skin as he braced himself over her, even in his passion careful not to overwhelm her. And over the sound of her own small murmurs and gasps she heard the slap of skin against skin, of the slide of their flesh against each other. But before long, she lost all grasp on the world around her and all of her concentration centered on one sensation only: the drive toward pleasure. Trevor’s stroke became erratic, and so, too, did Isabella’s movements, and as if by prearrangement their slow lovemaking became desperate. Until at last, Isabella lost her battle for control and she felt her consciousness splinter. As if from far away she felt Trevor press one last time into her, heard him groan, and for a moment felt him collapse onto her.
If she’d been herself, she might have teased him for the lapse in gentlemanly behavior. But she was in no condition to speak, let alone tease. As it was, he recovered himself soon enough and with a whispered “sorry” he turned to his side. Unaccountably, Isabella felt bereft to feel him leave her, but when he gathered her close to his side she sighed and tucked herself against his chest.
She heard the thrum of his heartbeat beneath her ear as he idly stroked her naked back.
It seemed as if a conversation was in order, but before she could speak she heard a soft snore and realized that her bridegroom of a few hours had fallen asleep.
And though she would not have thought it possible, soon so did she.
Sixteen
The trip back to Nettlefield was uneventful. Trevor chose to ride in the carriage along with his wife rather than on horseback. He found her to be an entertaining traveling companion once again, and her tales of life in London often left him chuckling. Though his first impression of her had been that she was a society flirt with little interest in anything or anyone besides herself, the real Isabella was far more complex than he’d given her credit for. True, she did have an almost encyclopedic knowledge of fashion, but she also knew much about the current political situation and could argue quite passionately about the plight of the poor and even, to his surprise, the Irish.
“I’ll bet you had no notion that a flibbertigibbet like me even knew that Ireland existed, let alone that our government treated its people so abominably,” she said after a particularly impassioned speech.
“I would hardly have called you a flibbertigibbet,” he said wryly, kissing the back of her hand, which was currently clasped in his own. “Perhaps a
lady of leisure,” he offered.
“Come now, Your Grace,” she countered. “I have little doubt that when you found me on the side of the road in that overturned carriage you would have liked nothing more than to leave me to my fate. I am eternally grateful that you did not.”
“Well, I am a gentleman, my dear,” he said. “And even when I was annoyed at your high-handed manners, I could not help but notice that you were possessed of a pair of the most delectable breasts it has ever been my good fortune to set eyes on.”
Isabella gave him a playful swat. “Villain! I might as well have been rescued by an ogling farmer with roaming hands.”
But Trevor could tell there was no real outrage in her protests. “I am quite pleased with our arrangement,” he said, pulling her closer to his side. “I am not normally given to praising the dowager, but she did a good thing in sending you to Yorkshire to fetch me. However unpleasant she might be.”
“Oh, she is much more than simply unpleasant,” Isabella said with vehemence. “She is quite devious. And cares little for how her behavior is perceived by anyone else. I suppose that’s what comes of being a duchess for thirty years. All that unchecked power goes to one’s head.”
“I certainly hope that you do not mean to follow in her footsteps,” Trevor said teasingly.
“Hardly,” Isabella returned. “And not only because I have learned from my sister’s mistakes on that score. When she was first married Perdita tried to include the dowager in the running of the ducal household and the social obligations. But she soon learned that no house can serve two masters—or in this case mistresses. At every possible turn the dowager undermined her to the point that Perdita finally withdrew from the field altogether. And unfortunately, the duke did little to make his grandmother back down. After all, she had run roughshod over his mother in the same way that she did so over his wife. Instead he saw his wife’s role diminished while his grandmother’s was elevated. Before long the servants went back to their old ways of deferring to the dowager when it came to household matters.”
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