Then Comes Seduction

by Mary Balogh

  But the point was that she had taken on a leg shackle too today And for that fact he would always feel guilty. For it really was a shackle. She would not have chosen him in a million years if she had been given a free choice. Sexual desire alone was not enough for idealistic, romantic ladies like Katherine Huxtable—or, rather, Katherine Finley Baroness Montford.

  He almost hated her.

  A fact that made him feel even more guilty.

  He wanted his wedding night, nonetheless. He could scarcely wait for Reading and their hotel room and the consummation of their marriage. He had come to realize lately that slim, curvaceous ladies were far more to his taste than more obviously voluptuous ones.

  And these thoughts brought with them more guilt again. He ought not to be thinking of his own sexual pleasures but of how he could make her happy.

  He wished someone in the course of history had thought of striking that word and all its derivatives from the English language—happy, happier, happiest, happiness. What the devil did the words really mean anyway? Why not just the word pleasure, which was far more… well, pleasant.

  “You know,” he said, “it may not be as bad as you think.”

  Had he not said that to her on another occasion? When he proposed marriage to her, perhaps?

  “It?” She turned her head and looked at him with raised eyebrows. “My marriage?”

  “Actually” he said, “it is ours, is it not? Our marriage. It may not be so bad.”

  “Or,” she said, “it may”

  He pursed his lips and considered.

  “Or it may,” he agreed. “I suppose we get to decide. Will we be happy or will we not? It will be one or the other, I suppose.”

  “Is life all black and white to you, then?” she asked him.

  “As opposed to varying shades of gray?” He thought again. “I do believe it is. Black is the absence of all color. White is the presence of all colors. I suppose life must be one or the other. On the whole, though, I think I would prefer color to its absence. But then black does add depth and texture to color. Perhaps certain shades of gray are necessary to a complete palette. Even unrelieved black. Ah, a deep philosophical question. Is black necessary to life, even a happy life? Could we ever be happy if we did not at least occasionally experience misery? What are your thoughts on the matter?”

  “Oh,” she said with a sigh, “you can turn any topic into a convoluted maze.”

  “Did you expect me, then,” he said, “to tell you simply that I prefer gray to either black or white? I would abhor a gray life. No real misery but no joy either, only endless placidity and dreary depression. Indeed, I must absolutely banish gray from my own particular palette. Never tell me you are a gray person, Katherine. I will not believe it.”

  She smiled slowly—and he guessed unwillingly— at him.

  “Ah,” he said, “this is better.”

  “Will we ever have a sensible conversation?” she asked him.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “That,” he said, “is for you to decide. I have tried to provoke a discussion on one of life’s deepest mysteries — the necessity of darkness in our lives as well as light— and you accuse me of having a convoluted maze for a mind. If you would prefer to discuss the weather, by all means let us do so. There are endless possibilities in that particular topic. If I should snore in the middle of the discussion, you may nudge me awake.”

  She laughed.

  “Better and better,” he said, half closing his eyes as he gazed at her.

  If his eternal punishment was a beach to be cleared, he thought, perhaps one grain of its sand would be lifted every time he made her laugh in what remained of both their lives. But it would still take a million years.

  Perhaps even a billion.

  Perhaps it would be impossible.

  But the thought brightened him. Nothingwas impossible.

  15

  T H E Y stopped for the night at the Crown Inn, the best hotel in Reading, and took the best apartments there. Katherine could not fault either the private dining and sitting room or the spacious bedchamber adjoining it, with its wide, canopied bed.

  They ate dinner—she even forced down some food— and talked at great length about the weather. At least, he did. She did not do much talking herself, but she did a great deal of laughing, despite herself, while he regarded her with those lazy, half- closed eyes of his and pursed lips.

  He could be utterly absurd and vastly amusing. But she had always known that. It had always been a part of his appeal. Those facts did not make him into the man to whom she would have wished to find herself married, though. She had pictured someone altogether more serious, more romantic, more… loving.

  She was afraid for the future and tried not to think of it. The future would come soon enough.

  She was alone now in the bedchamber. He had told her that he was about to make an ingenious excuse to go downstairs for a while so that she might have some privacy in which to prepare for bed. Then he had proceeded to do just that—he thought he had detected a spot of fluff on the rump of one of the horses during the journey and would not be able to settle for the night until he had gone down to the stables to check and to remove the fluff if it turned out that he was correct. And off he had gone, the absurd man, after she had laughed at him again.

  But she was not laughing now She had undressed and washed and donned the silk and lace nightgown that was one of her new bride clothes, purchased during the past month—Stephen had insisted and had even threatened to take her shopping himself if she refused to go with Meg and Nessie. She felt half naked— which was silly really when the nightgown was no more revealing than either of the two dresses she had worn today. It was just that it was a nightgown, she supposed.

  She was terribly aware of the large bed that was occupying much of the room, its blankets and sheets neatly turned down for the night. And of the relative quietness of the inn—even the distant sounds of voices calling and glasses and silverware clinking only served to emphasize the silence of the room. And of the darkness beyond the wide window. Their rooms were at the back of the inn and therefore away from all the light and bustle of the yard.

  She sat down in an armchair beside the window She should, she supposed, go to bed. Or she could get a book out of her valise. But she would be quite unable to concentrate upon it, and she would look a little silly when he came to join her. He would know that she was not, in fact, reading.

  Oh, she hated this. She hated it.

  A wedding night should be something magical, something shared, something… romantic.

  The trouble was that she was strongly attracted to him, that part of her really was aching with the anticipation of what was going to happen here when he returned. But part of her despised her own need, which was entirely physical. A woman ought to despise any attraction to a man that did not involve her heart. She did not love him—she could never love a man who lived life so carelessly and aimlessly to say the least. And he certainly did not love her. She doubted he was capable of loving anyone with a steady and enduring devotion.

  But they were married. Surely any feeling, even just a physical attraction, was better than nothing. Was not that what he had said a month ago to console her for the forced marriage?

  She rested her head against the back of the chair and relived the day in her mind—getting dressed this morning, hugging her family, arriving at the church with Stephen, walking along the central aisle with him, and seeing Lord Montford waiting there for her, his eyes fixed on her and then slowly smiling, the exchanging of vows, the shiny new wedding ring sliding onto her finger, the…

  “Hey”

  The voice was soft and low, and Katherine opened her eyes to find herself looking up at her husband. He had a hand on each of the arms of her chair and was leaning over her, his face only inches from her own.

  Had she been sleeping?

  He had removed his boots, she could see, and his coat and waistcoat and neckcloth. He was still weari
ng his shirt and pantaloons.

  She lifted one hand without thinking and brushed back the lock of dark hair that was forever falling across the right side of his forehead. It fell back again as soon as she took her hand away, and he smiled and kissed her.

  Very lightly and very briefly on the lips.

  All her insides turned to jelly.

  “I was mistaken,” he said. “No fluff Now I can rest in peace.”

  She had not heard him coming back into their apartments.

  “I just closed my eyes for a moment,” she said. “It has been a long day”

  “You are not going to plead exhaustion, Katherine, are you?” he asked. “On our wedding night?”

  “No, of course not,” she said.

  “And is it,” he asked her, “desire or duty that prompts that reply?”

  She opened her mouth to give him an answer and closed it again.

  His eyes bored into hers. He was still looming over her, waiting for a reply.

  “Duty,” she said. “You will not find me undutiful, my—Jasper.”

  “Ah, will I not?” He straightened up and held out a hand, palm up.

  She set her own in it and got to her feet.

  It was not just duty. It ought to be, but it was not.

  He tugged slightly on her hand and she came against his full length, her hands splayed against his chest. She could feel him instantly, hard and male, from her shoulders to her knees. She could feel the bulge of his manhood pressed to her stomach.

  His hands slid hard down her back. One remained against her waist. The other spread across her buttocks and pulled her even closer.

  She tipped back her head.

  “It will be desire, Katherine,” he said, and it seemed to her that his voice and expression were fierce, with none of the usual lazy humor. “Before I lay you on that bed and mount you, it will be desire more than duty.”

  She had offended him, perhaps even hurt him. Hurt his pride. He prided himself on his seductive powers, on his sexual prowess. Perhaps he thought, foolish man, that in those things alone lay all his claim to manliness.

  “You had better see to it, then,” she said, “that actions match words, Jasper. I do not want to be disappointed—again.”

  The fierce look was gone instantly. The humor was back in his eyes, and he laughed aloud.

  “You minx,” he said. “You saucy minx, Katherine.”

  And his mouth was on hers again, open and demanding this time, not subtle at all. She opened her mouth against the onslaught, and his tongue pressed deep inside her mouth so that for a moment she gasped for air.

  And then one hand came up to the back of her head and tipped it to one side, and his tongue ravished her mouth slowly, pulsing in and out, curling to stroke the roof of her mouth with exquisitely light strokes until she moaned and one hand gripped his shoulder while the fingers of the other twined in his hair.

  She could feel with her stomach that he was hard and big.

  His hands were stroking over her then, his palms firm, his fingers gentle and sensitive, rousing every nerve ending as they went—over her shoulders, down her arms to her elbows to her hands, over her breasts, lifting them in the cleft between his thumbs and forefingers, circling her nipples with his thumbs and then pressing lightly on them through the fabric of her nightgown until they were hard and aching, down over her waist and hips, in to her stomach, down to cup her between her legs, down the outsides of her thighs, up behind to circle and caress her buttocks, lifting her slightly so that he could rub his hardness between her thighs.

  His mouth had followed his hands—down over her chin, along her throat, down to the cleft between her breasts.

  And her own hands had not been idle—or her body She explored the magnificent hard, muscled length of him, pressing her palms to him, teasing him, caressing him with her fingertips, rubbing her breasts against his chest, her stomach against his.

  After just a few minutes they were both hot and clammy. They were both breathing raggedly and au dibly.

  He had caught hold of the sides of her nightgown just above the knees, she realized suddenly, and was sliding it upward over her body. She raised her arms and he lifted it all the way off and dropped it to the floor beside them.

  She was naked then, and the candles still burned on the dressing table. She did not care. She moved back against him and wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed his lips.

  But he moved his head after a minute or so and kissed a hot, moist path down to her breasts again. He feathered kisses around one nipple while he circled the other with the tip of one finger, and then he licked it, inhaling through his mouth so that she felt a rush of cool air. She gasped, and he sucked the nipple into his mouth and suckled her while he rubbed a thumb over the other nipple.

  She was so raw with desire that she could only lean into him for balance and throw back her head almost in agony and clutch his hair with both hands.

  Her legs were weak. Up inside, where no man had ever been, she pulsed and throbbed with a need so intense it was indistinguishable from pain.

  She let out a long breath on a ragged sigh. It sounded almost like a sob.

  He lifted his head and kissed her softly on the mouth. One of his hands had gone down to cup over the throbbing place. And memory returned on a rush of sensation, the memory of his doing that once before and then… Stopping.

  Not this time. Please, not this time.

  “Please,” she murmured against his lips. “Please.”

  He was looking down at her then with his lovely heavy-lidded eyes.

  “Tell me you want me,” he whispered, rubbing his nose lightly across hers. “Tell me, Katherine.”

  And for a split second she considered pulling away, breaking the spell, putting an end to this as he had done that other time. For he had promised she would desire him before he took her to bed, and he had fulfilled his promise—with the greatest ease. Just as he could have won his wager at Vauxhall if he himself had not decided to put an end to it.

  Was this all a charade to him? Another easy conquest?

  And did it matter?

  She was his wife. This was their wedding night. She owed him surrender even if this were indeed no more than duty. But she wanted him. Oh, yes, she did. She did not care about anything else. She would think again in the morning.

  Only a split second had passed—a jumble of thoughts that did not even have time to articulate themselves verbally in her mind.

  “I want you,” she whispered back.

  Please don’t stop. Not like that other time. Please don’t stop.

  He backed her the couple of feet to the side of the bed. She sat down on it, and then lay down and gazed up at him. But he had bent over her and kissed her open-mouthed as he pulled his shirt free of the band of his pantaloons. He broke the kiss for the moment it took to pull the shirt off over his head, and then resumed it while he undid the buttons at his waist and removed his pantaloons and drawers.

  He came onto the bed with her, looming over her, his hands braced on either side of her head, his knees straddling her legs.

  He was gazing down into her eyes and it occurred to her that he had not thought of blowing out the candles. Or perhaps he had. Perhaps he had left them burning deliberately. She did not care.

  She lifted both hands and cupped his face with them. She touched her thumbs to his lips, moving them outward lightly from the center to the corners.

  “I want you,” she whispered again.

  He kissed her, and his weight bore down on her, and his legs came between her own and pressed them wide until by sheer instinct she bent them at the knees and lifted them to twine about his, and she felt him position himself hard and hot against the most sensitive part of herself, and then…

  Ah, then.

  He came slowly in and in until there seemed no where else to come, and she clutched his back in fear of pain. And the pain came, sharp and terrifying—and was gone almost before she had felt it. And he came in a
nd in until she was stretched and filled and aching with need from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet.

  “The consummation, then, my wife,” he murmured against her lips.

  Her mind did not quite grasp the words.

  He had moved his head to the pillow beside her, and he was withdrawing slowly from her, and then—before she could protest—pressing in again.

  It amazed her that she could be twenty- three years old, that she could have grown up in the country surrounded by animals both wild and domestic, that she had known the basic facts of life for as far back as she could remember, and yet that she had never really known…

  Ah, she had never known.

  It went on for what seemed a very long time, the wonderful riding rhythm, the firm thrust and withdrawal, the hot wetness that she could even hear, the aching, the need, the pleasure, the pain, the…But, there were no words.

  There were no words.

  And then his face was above hers again and some of his weight had been lifted off her. He had braced himself on his forearms to look down at her.

  And the rhythm changed. It was slower and deeper. His face glistened with sweat. She bit her lower lip and then frowned slightly.

  Pleasure had become pain pure and simple.

  And then the rhythm quickened until it became… unbearable.

  She closed her eyes very tightly and pressed her head back into the pillow. She untwined her legs from about his, braced her feet against the mattress, and lifted, strained into the pain.

  And…

  Oh, and.

  It shattered into a million pieces and revealed itself to be what it had been all along. Peace. Beauty.

  Pure, beautiful peace.

  She was aware that his weight had come down on her again, that he was pumping hard into her, that after a few moments he held still, straining into her until she felt a lovely gush of liquid heat at her core.

  But it was all peace. All beauty.

  Until, after a couple of minutes, he disengaged his body from hers and moved off her to lie beside her and pulled the bedcovers up over them.

  She was suddenly damp, cold, uncomfortable, bereft.