Her kisses were no less hungry than his. Her caresses just as intimate. But when her touch strayed between his legs to explore the hard length of him, he forced himself to deny such a pleasurable torture for fear that, after so many years of abstinence, he would be unable to prolong his release to match hers. He was not so caught in the moment that he’d lost all perspective. His overriding desire was for her to enjoy making love, and with him. His own needs were secondary, for he knew that when she tumbled off into blissful oblivion, so too would he.
He gently and reluctantly withdrew from her touch, sliding down the bed, kisses progressing from her mouth to suckle at her breast as he caressed her curves. And when he lightly stroked the pulse between her thighs, she gasped in surprise but did not make him stop. Instead, her hand found his, and together they found a rhythm that sent her beyond reason. And when he judged her to be close to the precipice of climax, he permitted his tongue the ultimate indulgence. But this sensual extravagance was his undoing, and hers. For despite her hunger for release, her mind froze, and then so too did her body. Such was her panic that she pushed him off and scrambled away, dragging the coverlet with her to cover her nakedness. She sat back against the headboard, shaking, unfulfilled, mind and body in turmoil. Hugging her stockinged knees, she turned away to face the window, profile hidden by a tumbled mane of red hair.
He sat up, stunned. He had gone too far too soon. Of course he had. She had never enjoyed a sensual kiss before that night in her bedchamber. And here he was introducing her to the carnal pleasures of oral stimulation without a second thought. Her reaction left him in no doubts that she had not known of its existence before now. He wondered if she had been indulged in anything more perfunctory than the mechanics of copulation. And that had him speculating if she had ever found fulfilment, with or without her husband’s involvement. Knowing the sort of upbringing she’d had at the hands of a cold-hearted and unemotional parent, it was too much to expect that a conversation between mother and daughter about the marriage bed had ever taken place. And knowing her husband to be vainglorious, any pleasure while making love would have been self-serving and most definitely not mutual.
Regarding Mary now as she stared out the window, all he wanted to do was take her in his arms and reassure her that her reaction and lack of experience was nothing of which to be ashamed. Sexual ignorance amongst aristocratic wives was not unusual; in fact, in many polite circles it was encouraged. So were the selfish needs of noble husbands. In this way the arrogant ignorance of the husband was never challenged, and thus he need not concern himself with satisfying his wife’s needs. And then there was the occasional husband who did care about his wife’s pleasure, in and out of the bedchamber, but being unable for whatever reason to cater to her needs, he willingly accepted into his household a gentleman who could. And Christopher knew this, because for nine years he had been that gentleman, and in four separate noble households.
He did not take Mary in his arms, nor did he voice his thoughts. He remained at the other end of the bed, coverlet covering his aching manhood, and waited for Mary to break the silence; he could see she was itching to do so. Her mortification was no surprise, but what she ultimately confessed appalled him.
She finally looked away from the window and threw at him, “I know what you must be thinking!”
“Do you? I doubt it. But please tell me.”
“You’re thinking that for a woman of my age I am pathetically ignorant.”
“Not pathetic. That you were deliberately kept in ignorance is hardly your fault. Nor is it a particularly unusual circumstance.”
“Meaning?”
“There are women who go their entire lives never knowing intimacy of any kind, least of all physical enjoyment with a lover.”
“You mean those women who live their lives in a convent? Nuns?”
He gave a bark of laughter which he quickly stifled for fear she thought him insincere.
“Well, yes, there are those women. They take a vow of chastity by choice. But I was referring to females of your social standing. Wives of noblemen whose husbands prefer to keep them in ignorance for one reason or another, but usually because they are selfish.”
“I was told that only men need to satisfy their carnal appetites. That women do not. That to have such-such—urges is undignified and bestial, and that only whores and prostitutes indulge in such behavior. Wives—good wives—keep their thoughts pure and their bodies for procreation.”
Christopher knew it had to have been the Countess who had filled her daughter’s head with utter nonsense, but he did not say so because he could see she had more to say as she had dropped her knees and was regarding him with such earnestness he dared not smile or interrupt.
“But I instinctively knew such an argument was flawed, for why do some couples marry for love and remain in love if they are not compatible in every way? My cousin married a duke who had the reputation of being a great libertine before he met her. And yet, upon marriage he became a devoted husband and father. They loved each other deeply and found pleasure in each other’s company, so it seemed only natural to assume they enjoyed making love for its own sake.” She shrugged, a blush to her cheeks. “Even as a girl of fifteen I knew there had to be a good reason why the sex act is called making love.”
“Clever—for a young girl to reason that out for herself, and against the absurd dictates drummed into her by a woman who clearly had never made love.”
“Oh my mother wasn’t the one who told me good wives keep their thoughts pure and their bodies for procreation. I’m sure she believed it though. No, my mother was far more prescriptive. She loathed the sex act. And I know this because when my parents’ marriage became intolerable and my father abandoned us, it was my nurse who confided the reason. I did not understand at the time what she meant, but I never forgot what she told me… And later, when I married, I wondered if indeed I was like her.”
“You are nothing like that woman!” Christopher growled.
Mary smiled, and comforted by his angry denial she inched further down the bed to be nearer to him, and asked curiously, “But you have never met her, so how do you know?”
“I don’t know her, but I know you.”
“Oh! But… just now… My reaction—my idiotic reaction to-to—”
“It was not idiotic. It was an instinctive response to a new and very different experience. And if you do not like it, then I will never—”
“Oh, I never meant you to think that. It may have appeared that way because of my ignorance, but to tell a truth—” She blushed and glanced away before looking at him through her lashes with a shy smile. “—I liked it rather too well. I was most surprised you would indulge me in such a selfless way—”
“Selfless? Believe me, pleasuring you is not selfless. It gives me great satisfaction to make you happy. That is what making love is all about—pleasuring each other; satisfying each other; making each other happy.”
Mary came closer still and put out her hand to him, which he willingly took in a firm clasp.
“Then it is only fair that you show me how I may pleasure you in return.”
He kissed her fingers and smiled into her eyes. “If that is your wish.”
She stared into his damp brown eyes and she saw only love and understanding and it brought tears to her eyes. “I want to make love with you—for us to make love—very much.”
“That makes two of us. But all in good time. Now we should dress and have breakfast. I thought we’d eat down by the stream. I caught and prepared us a trout, which is best cooked out-of-doors—”
“He—Sir Gerald—he was the one who told me only whores and prostitutes indulge in bestial behavior,” she confessed in a rush, gaze locked on his. “He said that for me to be a good wife I must remain still. He said I must not move or turn about, and that I must take my thoughts elsewhere while he availed himself of my body. I was not to speak, or call out, or offer any resistance. He said it was his right as my husband
to take me how and when he liked. His said his only interest in being in my bedchamber was the business of getting me with child. He never undressed before me. He never asked me to remove my nightgown. He never kissed me or touched me in a way that made me feel anything but a means to an end.”
She swallowed and gave a little sigh, fingers convulsing in his. But he remained mute for he could see she was not finished. So he kept his gaze steady, on her eyes, and he did not flinch or show emotion. Outwardly he was as calm as the most tranquil lake; inside he was a raging sea of anger, disbelief, and wretchedness on her behalf.
“He would bolt both doors—but I had nowhere to run,” she continued mildly, relating what had happened to her as if it had happened to someone else. “And he only approached the bed once my back was to him. He would then lift my nightgown and cover me as a stallion does a mare. When he was done, he would thank me, unbolt both doors, and leave. Dear God! Thank me, as if I had offered him a cup of tea! Every visit was the same. In ten years of marriage, not even when he was drunk, did he take me in any other way. I hated that man.
“But what could I do? I was married to him for better or worse. I was his wife, and as my husband, he was within his rights to come to my bedchamber whenever he pleased, and in whatever state he cared to. And as obedience had been drummed into me since a child, I did not question any of it. But instinctively I knew that the way in which he conducted himself in the bedchamber was not—was not—usual, even between couples in arranged marriages. But I was too ashamed to confide in anyone. And so I tried not to think about it, ever, even when it was happening. And I never want to think or talk about his visits ever again!”
She paused, as if expecting some response from him. But Christopher could hardly breathe, least of all put a coherent sentence together, and when he did manage to cobble a few words they were uttered in a hoarse whisper, his throat as raw as his emotions.
“I—I don’t—I don’t doubt—doubt that. We’ll—we’ll never speak of it again—unless you want to.”
“Good. And I won’t,” she stated emphatically, and feeling more confident now she had confided in him, she continued, her confession becoming indignant. “It was easy to let my natural feeling and inclinations die inside me, to not expect to be loved, because I had never been loved by my mother, so why would my husband be any different? She told me outright that she resented the fact I had not been born male. My birth, she is convinced, was the cause of all her subsequent troubles with my father. She may never have loved me, but I love Teddy with all my heart. So I knew with Teddy’s birth I could not be entirely like her. Teddy is Sir Gerald’s only saving grace. To think such a sweet, dear child was conceived in such a cold, calculating, and unfeeling way breaks my heart. But at least I do know I have a heart! That I have her at all is the only good and wholesome thing to ever come from my marriage. The only one. If not for Teddy, I truly believe that any love I had to give would have shriveled up long ago. And if not for you, I may never have believed myself capable of being the object of desire. But you do desire me, don’t you—”
“Very much. I don’t think I have ever desired a woman as I desire you, Mary.”
She snatched up his fingers and pressed them to her hot cheek before kissing the back of his hand.
“And I you…” She sniffed back tears, then surprised him by giving a tinkle of laughter. “And not in a hundred years—not ever—would I have believed it possible that I would find myself in a cottage, naked in bed, with the handsome squire of Brycecombe Hall!”
“Handsome? Am I?”
Mary gave him a playful shove. “Oh, you know you are! You know all the females, young and old, within a twenty-mile radius go weak at the knees and become simpering misses every time they see you!”
He put up an eyebrow. “Only twenty miles?”
She grabbed the nearest pillow and flung it at him; he caught it, and then adroitly pulled her into his arms. Gently brushing the hair out of her face, he enquired,
“And do I make your knees go weak, Mary?”
She settled in his embrace. “Every time I see you. Do you doubt it? But I’ve never been a simpering miss with you.”
He chuckled. “No. You were—you are—never that. Which is just as well, or I might not like you half as much.” He pinched her chin. “That’s a lie. I could not love you more…”
She kissed his mouth then, and after a few moments pulled away, and he let her go. She hopped down off the bed, scooped up her chemise from amongst the pile of clothes, and wiggled into it. He dared not blink for fear he might be dreaming, and if he blinked, she’d be gone. His overwhelming desire was to pull her back into bed and make love to her, but remembering her harrowing confession cooled his ardor quicker than a pitcher of ice water. All in good time, and that time was not now. A rumble of hunger told him his stomach agreed with him.
“Breakfast?” he asked casually as he followed her lead and pulled on his drawers. When she did not immediately answer he turned, still holding his shirt, and found her staring fixedly at him. “Don’t go all weak at the knees on me now,” he teased, and winked. “Unless you want me to carry you outdoors to our breakfast spot.”
She shook herself free of the mesmerizing sight of him naked, all lean muscular masculine lines and all hers, and tilted her nose with a sniff she hoped masked her own desire.
“My knees are perfectly strong enough to carry me to breakfast, where we will converse on all manner of topics over your splendidly cooked trout. And then I want you to show me how to fish, for I have never been angling before. And if there are any more ruins to explore, I should like to see those, too. And then perhaps I might bathe in your warm stream. After that, I am quite willing to go all weak at the knees, for I very much want to make love with you.”
CHRISTOPHER OPENED one eye and found Mary sitting up in bed beside him with the coverlet drawn back. She was admiring him. She was so absorbed that she failed to notice he was awake until he pulled the coverlet from her fingers and up over his nakedness.
“I can’t sleep with you watching me,” he said drowsily.
“Can’t you? Then tell me what you’ve been doing this past half hour if not sleeping?”
“You’ve been watching me for half an hour?”
She giggled guiltily and snuggled down beside him. “I like to look at you—most particularly when you’re asleep—and naked.”
He shifted to put an arm about her and held her against him.
“I like to look at you, too, but there is one thing I like doing with you even more.”
“Oh? Only one?” she asked with feigned disappointment.
He was not fooled. Her physical response spoke volumes. She squirmed against him in impish anticipation of his riposte. And when he did not answer immediately, she squirmed even more. And then he turned within their embrace, first to face her, and then to roll onto his back bringing her with him, so that she ended up on top of him, which had her giggling even harder. She pretended to struggle but he was not to be dissuaded, and very soon she was straddling him, her mane of red hair falling about her in wild disorder and tickling his face.
She sat up and smiled down at him, and he smiled up at her, and in that single moment he marveled at how five short days alone together had changed their relationship forever. It was as if they had been friends and lovers for years, so comfortable and unselfconscious were they with each other. It was how he had dreamed of it being, and how he hoped their life would continue once they returned to the world beyond this cottage in the woods.
He did not want to speculate on an alternative, for if he allowed his mind to wander, there was that shadow, that big black cloud that loomed over them, of the very real possibility their time alone together was finite; that this idyll was a prelude to the rest of her life with another; that this Mary, the real Mary, his Mary would be taken from him forever.
“Are you going to tell me what this one thing is,” she murmured, leaning forward to kiss him. “Or shall I haza
rd a guess?”
He came out of his introspection and returned her kiss with a grin. “What would be the amusement in just telling you? Guess.”
“Very well. Challenge accepted.” She leaned further in to whisper at his ear, her soft purr on his neck heightening all his senses. “But perhaps I would prefer to show you…” She slid down the length of his torso, lithe as a cat, and hovered over him. There was a decided twinkle of mischief in her eye. “Your answer, it seems, is staring me in the face.”
“You cheeky strumpet!” he retorted lovingly. “He is too well-pleased with himself and can wait!”
And in one easy movement he sat up, rolled over, and slid her beneath him, she again gasping and giggling and making a feeble attempt at resistance. She was now the one lying amongst the bedcovers, looking up at him. And it was his turn to whisper near her ear.
“If you must know, you wanton baggage, it’s tea—making you a cup of tea. But that too can wait…”
And as she had done, he slid down the length of her curves, lithe as a cat, and she drew breath deep in her throat. He did not hover.
HE HAD TIDIED the cottage, made a pot of tea, and toasted the last of the bread by the time she returned from bathing in the warm waters of the weir. She found him sitting under the portico waiting for her. It was midday, and it was the first time they had stepped outside the cottage in over a day.
She had wound a plait about her head to keep her untidy mane from her face, and was wearing the petticoats, bodice, and half-boots she had arrived in. The hems were stained with mud and water, the bodice crumpled, and the half-boots scuffed. She was not wearing her stays. A week ago he could never have imagined the Lady Mary Cavendish would allow herself to go about in public so unkempt. It would have been unthinkable to her. Yet, watching her come across the path towards him, she had never looked more beautiful in her dishevelment. There was something about her that went beyond the superficial—the regal way she carried herself, upright and correct at all times. It was a glow, yes, a glow of contentment, and one of confidence. That was it! She looked confident and content, and it radiated. He smiled to himself as he sipped his tea, at the small part he had played in her new-found self-assurance and happiness.
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