by Aileen Fish
Nick fell onto his back with a roar of laughter.
“Shhh,” she admonished as she crawled over and up his supine frame. “You’ll wake the entire house.”
“Emily Ann Calvert,” he whispered, drawing her down to brush a gentle kiss on her lips. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
She hovered over him, her hair a curtain surrounding them, her lips a breath away.
“That I’m not a virgin, you mean?” she asked as an echo of their earlier pleasure whispered in the air between them. “I am, you know.”
“I know,” he murmured, his fingers sifting through her tangled curls.
“Barely,” she continued with a laugh. “Goodness, Nicholas Edward Avery, the things you know. Who would have thought there was so much fun to be had without being compromised?”
“Oh, you’ve been compromised,” he assured her with a wicked grin. “Make no mistake about it, Em.”
“Hmm,” she replied noncommittally. “I only meant to say that I’ve spent a lot of time in the saddle, astride, working with stubborn horses and wild ponies.”
“Ah,” he offered when she left off speaking.
“I’ve heard that some ladies, those not raised in cozy parlors and cushiony carriages, may not possess a maidenhead to be torn asunder on their wedding night,” she explained.
“Are you worried I will think you unchaste on our wedding night?” Nick rolled her beneath him and loomed over her, his body blocking out the soft glow of the fire in the grate.
“I am unchaste,” she replied. “I’ve been a royal hussy in your bed and mine.”
“And in that chair,” Nick added with a nod to the chair where he’d first introduced her to the pleasures to be found in his arms. “And the floor.”
Emily smiled at the reminder of their late afternoon tryst on the plush carpet in her room. “It’s really quite ridiculous, this preoccupation with one’s virtue, and just what constitutes its loss.”
“What has you worrying about this?” he asked as he nuzzled her neck, his late night whiskers gently abrading her skin.
“Something Bernice said today while we were trying on gloves in the village.” She lifted her arms to wrap them around him and pull him down fully on her. She’d found that she loved the feel of his huge body on her, the weight of him, the warmth.
“Bernice talked with you about maidenheads and virtue?” he asked in surprise, his head coming up so he could look down at her. “I know she can be a bit irreverent but as far as I know she is as pure as the driven snow. I know for a fact that Jamison has done nothing more than kiss her once or twice.”
“And you do not think another gentleman might have caught her eye in the ensuing years?” she asked curiously.
“She’s had her eyes firmly on Jamison.”
“She mentioned that she was absent from London last Season.”
“Was she?” he asked, a frown drawing his brows down and creating an adorable line between them.
“She remarked upon it the day she arrived,” Emily replied. “Adelaide was surprised we had not met and Bernice reminded her that she’d been absent from London during the Season.”
“You’re right. She missed the entire Season.”
“Why do you suppose that was? She is nearly on the shelf to hear her tell it and yet she missed a Season of husband hunting.”
“Jamison hunting,” he corrected.
“She doesn’t appear to be hunting him any longer.”
“Just what did she say?” he asked and Emily could see that he was concerned.
“Only that she wondered if a man could truly tell whether or not he’d taken a virgin to his bed,” she answered.
“She just blurted it out? What were you discussing?”
Emily felt a flush begin on her breasts and spread up to her cheeks.
“Have you told Bernice about us?” Nicholas asked.
“She guessed,” Emily hurried to explain. “She’s been making little whispered remarks to me for two days.”
“And?” he prodded.
“Well, might be I told her there are ways for a lady to enjoy herself without compromising her virtue,” she replied, lapsing into the slow drawl she knew he enjoyed.
“Did you, now?” her murmured, that adorable little boy grin on his lips.
“And that was when she said she was of the opinion most men wouldn’t recognize a virgin even as they breached her maidenhead.”
“That’s odd,” he replied quietly. “Never mind, Emily. Trust me when I tell you that unless the man in questions is an untried boy, or a blundering idiot, he would know a virgin when he found himself buried within one.”
“Have you had so many virgins, then?”
“Of course not. A gentleman does not take a virgin to his bed without marrying her afterward.”
“What sort of women does a gentleman take to his bed without marrying afterward?” Emily knew full well she ought not to have asked the question, but curiosity had ever been her downfall. “Actresses? Courtesans? Merry widows? Never say you have dallied with married ladies?”
“I have never bedded a married lady,” he hurried to assure her. “Nor one who must be paid for her time.”
“So actresses and widows?” she persisted.
“From time to time,” he agreed with a grimace.
“Then how do you know you would recognize a virgin?”
“It is my understanding that a man would feel a virgin’s …um…maidenhead when he…when he put his member into her.”
“But what if the woman did not have a maidenhead, what if she’d been born without one?”
“Women aren’t born without them.
“Then what if she’d already ruptured hers?”
“Ruptured?”
“Torn it, dislodged it, whatever. What if it no longer existed? Would she still be a virgin?”
“Of course,” he replied cautiously. “As long as she didn’t lose it with a man.”
“Ok, but—”
“Emily,” he groaned.
“No, just hear me out,” she insisted. “What if she did lose it with a man, but not with his member? What if it was his fingers? What if he had giant hands with long thick fingers?”
“A woman cannot lose her virginity…” his voice trailed off as he followed her gaze to his hand where it rested on the bed beside her.
“Nicholas, you’ve had your fingers in my body and it seems to me if I’d had a maidenhead before we began to dally, it’s long gone now.”
Nicholas laughed. “When I finally make love to you, I hope you will know the difference between two fingers and my…er, manhood.”
“I don’t know,” she said doubtfully, not entirely convinced that the hard pulsing part of him that she had rocked against and fondled and caressed for the last three nights could fit inside her body.
“Trust me, love,” he replied with a gentle smile.
“I do, but getting back to my original thought.”
“Which was?”
“If a woman is technically a virgin, in that she hasn’t taken a man into her body, but does not possess a maidenhead, how would he know she was a virgin?”
“There is a certain amount of pain, even some blood,” he replied carefully.
“I thought that was only if she still possessed a maidenhead.”
That stopped him. He looked away from her, drew his brows down into a frown.
“Isn’t it the rendering that causes the pain and the bleeding?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“So, then a man might not know the difference?”
“He would still know,” he insisted warily.
“How?” she demanded, not even remembering why she’d begun the conversation, but determined to see it through to the end.
“For one thing, a virgin would know little of the kisses and caresses that precede the bedding.”
“I now have a vast store of that sort of knowledge,” she pointed out. “Yet, I am a virgin.”
“Using your logic, if I invited a man to my bed tomorrow, he would think I was not a virgin.”
“As I am the only man you are ever going to invite to your bed, the point is moot.”
“Fine, let’s not use me as an example. If another woman had frolicked with her lover but fallen short of taking his cock into her body—”
“What?” Nicholas barked at her, interrupting her. “Where in the world did you learn that word?”
“From you.”
“Me? I have never said that word in front of you.” He heaved himself off of her with a grunt and scrambled backward until his back was against the bedpost.
“Yes, you have,” Emily argued. “Just last night you whispered to me that you wished your cock was inside me instead of your fingers.”
Nicholas stared at her in horror.
“What?” she demanded as she rose to her knees in front of him.
“I apologize,” he said so formally she half expected him to bow from the waist.
“What on earth for?” she asked in confusion. She’d quite liked the desire she’d heard in his voice, the heat that had washed over her, the image of him putting that hard pulsing part of himself into her body.
“A gentleman does not use such coarse language with the woman who will be his wife,” he explained, his back stiff, his words clipped.
“Does he use coarse language with her once they are married?”
“Certainly not.”
“Well, who does a gentleman use such language with? His mistress? A doxy on the street?” Emily could feel her temper rising.
“I… That is…” he stumbled to a halt as a flush stole up to paint his chiseled cheekbones pink.
And that quickly her temper cooled and she smiled at him.
“Did it shock you?” he asked almost shyly.
“Yes,” she admitted but hurried to add, “Not in a horrified way. I found it strangely pleasant.”
“Pleasant?” he asked with a chuckle.
“Thrilling,” she added and watched his eyes widen. “Thrillingly naughty.”
Nicholas lunged for her, tackling her and gently lowering her onto her back to smile down at her.
“My naughty Emily,” he crooned, his voice low and sweet. Tender.
“I love you.” The words fell softly from her lips without thought. She sucked in a quick breath, shocked that she had said them, even more shocked to realize she meant them. She loved this great hulking giant of a man with his boyish smile and his calloused hands. She loved his intelligence and his humor and his warm heart. She loved everything about him.
“Thank God,” he whispered as his eyes drifted shut and his head fell forward, his unruly tawny curls brushing her cheek. His chest rose and fell unsteadily and his breath sighed out of him to caress her neck.
He hung suspended over her, not speaking, not even looking at her and Emily was swamped with affection, with the certain knowledge that Nicholas Avery had been waiting anxiously, impatiently, to hear the three little words from her.
Slowly his head rose and Emily was surprised to see his beautiful blue eyes were wet. But his voice was firm and steady. “I love you, Emily Ann Calvert.”
“I know,” She blinked against the tears that rushed to her eyes.
“Will you marry me?”
“What?” she cried, giving him a shove that didn’t even cause him to budge. “Have you lost your mind? You can’t propose to me while we’re both buck naked!”
Nicholas scrambled off the bed, scooped up his robe and shoved his arms through the sleeves. Pulling the belt into a tight, decisive knot he stalked around the bed, found her night gown where he’d thrown it earlier, and tossed it to her. She caught it as he clambered back onto the bed and crawled toward her.
“Let me help you to dress,” he offered when she only sat staring at him.
Gently, as if she might break if he touched her too roughly, Nicholas dropped the white, cotton nightgown over her head, pulled her shivering arms through the long sleeves and brushed the fabric over her breasts, his warm hands lingering for just a moment. He settled the hem around her hips and across her legs where she’d tucked them beside her.
He took her trembling hands in his and Emily’s head, which had been filled with fluff since he’d said the words, cleared. Her confusion and doubts evaporated as if they’d never been and suddenly she was certain she wanted to spend the rest of her life with Nicholas. She wanted to revel in his passion every night and wake up in his arms every morning. She wanted to give him everything she possessed, her heart, her fortune, her treasure trove of useless knowledge.
She met his eyes, smiled into them, and gently squeezed his fingers wrapped so securely around hers.
“Will you marry me?” he whispered and Emily heard hope and fear in his soft raspy voice.
“Yes. Oh, yes!” she cried as she launched herself against his chest and his strong arms closed around her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Emily felt as light as air the next morning as she floated down the stairs. She’d fallen into a deep contented sleep after Nicholas had left her bed just before dawn and she hadn’t awoken until after ten o’clock. She’d missed breakfast, Tilly had informed her with a wink. Most of the other guests had gone out riding as the weather had turned warm overnight.
She didn’t care. She’d agreed to marry Nicholas Avery. She felt as if she was in a dream, a wonderful glorious dream from which she hoped never to awaken.
“Who do you think you are?” Bernice’s angry words pulled her unceremoniously from the dream and she froze on the stairs, half a dozen steps from the landing.
A soft rumble of unintelligible, masculine words followed the lady’s outburst.
“How dare you?” Her friend’s voice was coming from the back of the house, from the library or perhaps the billiards room. Emily hesitated, unsure whether to run to assist Bernice or to mind her own business.
“Take your hands off me!”
Emily hurried down the remaining steps and turned toward the back of the house, her hand gripping the newel post as her slippers slid on the polished marble. She flew down the long wide hall.
She stopped on the threshold to the library just as Lady Bernice’s hand streaked across Lord Jamison’s cheek. The gentleman seemed not to notice the strike, stood tall and motionless before the furious woman.
Emily’s gaze shot to Bernice who stood trembling before Jamison, her obviously stinging palm gripped in her other hand, her chest heaving, and two bright spots of color on her cheeks.
“No more,” Bernice ground out through clenched teeth. “I am finished acting the fool for you. Do you hear me, Jamie?”
Jamison said nothing and Emily saw no discernible expression on his face.
“You need never again worry that I will embarrass you with my unwanted attentions. You no longer need to hide in your house for fear I will appear at whatever event you attend. You are free of me. And I will get free of you, damn you. So help me God, I will stop…” Bernice’s angry tirade faded away as she stared at the silent man before her.
Jamison made no reply but for the clenching of his jaw.
“Was there ever a time, even in its smallest increment, when you cared for me?” Bernice asked, and Emily was surprised to hear, not anger or sorrow, but confusion in her voice. “Have I truly been blind all these years? All the times I turned to find you looking at me, watching me, were you only marking my whereabouts to determine which corner of the ballroom, which box at the theater, which path in the park to avoid?”
Lord Jamison did not speak and Bernice drew a shaky breath, and stiffened her spine, her eyes never leaving him.
Neither of the room’s inhabitants had noticed her. Emily took a careful step back, intent on fleeing the scene of her friend’s humiliation. Unfortunately, her small movement caused Bernice’s head to swing around.
Their eyes met, Bernice’s bright
and fierce, Emily’s brimming with tears.
“I beg your pardon,” Emily whispered as Jamison followed Bernice’s gaze. His eyes, dark and empty, landed on her. He stared at her. She stared back.
“No, I beg your pardon,” Bernice retorted. “It is quite unseemly, my standing in your aunt’s library screaming like a fishwife.”
“Excuse me,” Emily murmured as she turned and fled from the room.
Holding back tears, she careened around the corner into the front parlor and right into Nicholas.
“Whoa,” he exclaimed, his hands coming up to grip her shoulders, to keep her from falling on her backside.
“Oh,” she cried, her eyes jumping up to his face.
“Emily, what’s wrong? What’s happened?”
“Nothing,” she whispered as she flung herself against his chest, grasping the lapels of his dark coat, burying her face against his neck.
“Em,” he murmured.
“Will you walk with me in the garden?” she asked, her lips pressed to the pulse beating at the base of his throat.
Without a word, he took her hand and led her out the front door, stopping only long enough to grab her cape from the butler and wrap it around her shoulders.
The snow was nearly gone, only wet patches remained in the shade of the oaks and pines dotting the lawn. Emily looked over to the Goddess of Winter, now little more than a misshapen mound of melting ice.
Emily and Nicholas walked side by side along the twisting paths between tall hedges and around empty fountains and benches. Neither said a word until they reached the gazebo. With a strong hand on her back he ushered her into the open structure, leading her to the bench and gently pushing her to sit.
“Well?” Nicholas stood before her, glaring down at her.
“What?” she asked, calmer after the walk through the bare winter garden.
“What is wrong? And do not try my patience by telling me it is nothing,” he growled at her, his eyes flashing.
“Nicholas, whatever has come over you?”
“Tell me. Just say it.”
“Say what?”
“You’ve changed your mind, haven’t you?” he demanded, raking a hand through his hair, rumpling it until a wayward curl stood straight up on his head.