Roxana thrust her hands guiltily behind her back. “I don’t mean to. It’s only—I’ve never—”
He held out his arms. Without thinking, she stepped into them. She wasn’t wearing stays, or a petticoat, or even her dressing gown, and when he gathered her against him, the feel of his lean, hard body against hers and the warmth of his body heat through the thin material of her nightgown hit her like a shock.
“You’re shaking,” he said in surprise. “Surely you’re not afraid of me?”
“No, of course I’m—” Trembling, she abandoned the lie unfinished.
“You are,” he said on a note of astonishment, as if the possibility had never occurred to him before. “I swear, the last thing I should ever wish to do is hurt you.”
“I know. And I feel silly to be so anxious. We’ve known each other from the egg, haven’t we, Ayersley? You shouldn’t seem at all fearsome. And we’re both civilized people who would never do anything millions of others have not already done. There’s nothing to be afraid of, really. I can do this. We’re married and it’s natural, even expected—”
“Shh.”
He held her quietly, and with a conscious effort she made herself stop babbling. What a perfect idiot she was being. Why had she said yes? She wasn’t ready to be married.
“The last thing I should ever wish to do is hurt you,” he said again, his voice so low and earnest she could feel it rumble in his chest as she huddled against him.
“It’s not exactly you I’m afraid of, it’s—it’s—” Searching for a phrase to convey the terrifying combination of pain, mortifying embarrassment, and her own inadequacy that had her literally quaking in his arms, she couldn’t think of any words grim enough. “It’s—”
Unable to finish the sentence, she burst into tears.
Ayersley had been holding her close, but at her first sob, he immediately let go and stepped back with a look of alarm. “Don’t cry!” he said, sounding as startled and unnerved as if she’d exploded into flames rather than tears. “Please don’t cry.”
Roxana wanted to say something reassuring, perhaps even laugh through her tears, but she could only shake her head, trying to communicate that she couldn’t help it. This wasn’t a ladylike weeping, either, but gusty, helpless sobs. She’d only cried like this one other time in recent memory—the night George had jilted her—and poor Ayersley had been present for that too.
Now he looked about wildly as if seeking aid, or at least an escape route. Finding neither, he met her eyes with a pleading expression. “Roxana, don’t, please. I promise, I won’t do anything to hurt you.”
She tried to tell him she knew he wouldn’t, that she trusted him, but with the way she was sobbing, the words issued forth in loud, incomprehensible gasps. “I never—thought—you’d really—”
“Roxana, calm down, please.” The look in Ayersley’s eyes was almost frantic. “The servants are going to hear you.”
That only made her cry harder. “But I—can’t—help it!” God save her, what a disaster. She had expected her wedding night to be trying, but she’d never imagined she’d end up in outright hysterics.
“Shh, it’s all right, it’s all right,” Ayersley said over her wails, holding up his hands in a desperate placating gesture. “I’ll leave you alone tonight. I’ll sleep in my own room. Just please, please stop crying.”
She gulped for air, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. She must have heard him wrong. “What?”
“I’ll leave you alone. You’re not in any fit state for—for this.” He took a step toward the door that connected her room to his, and she realized with dismay he really meant it. He had given up any notion of consummating their marriage. She had driven him away.
“But we’re—” Again she couldn’t get the words out. “It’s our—”
He set a hand on the doorknob, looking aghast at the way things had turned out. “You’ve been through enough for one day. I should have realized as much.”
Her sobs had begun to slow, but even if they’d disappeared completely, heaven only knew what she would have said. It was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? A reprieve from the awful business of marriage. Yet any relief she might have felt faded to insignificance alongside a sharper feeling of guilt and shirked responsibility. “But what about our w-wedding night?”
His eyes swung back to meet hers, shock in their blue depths. “Surely you don’t think I mean to force myself on you.”
Her heart thudded. “It wouldn’t be f-forcing,” she said, still plagued by hiccupping sobs, not to mention a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. “I wasn’t going to re-refuse you. I’m just a trifle anxious.”
“More than a trifle, it appears.”
“But I—I want to be a good wife. I know it’s my d-duty.”
His mouth twisted. “I don’t want you doing this only because it’s your duty.”
She regarded him in consternation. She had no idea what excuse to offer, what explanation to plead—I can’t help being cold? I warned you not to marry me? She closed her eyes briefly to shut out the look on his face, a breathless hiccup making her feel even more wretched. She’d known she was going to disappoint him.
He must have sensed her misery, for when he spoke again, his voice was gentle. “Get some sleep, Roxana. You’re tired and overwrought. We can talk about this tomorrow.”
“You’re—you’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” He reached for the candle he’d left burning on the table beside the bed. “Sleep well.” With a wan smile, he retired to his own room, pulling the connecting door closed behind him.
Roxana sank down on the bed, sniffling and remorseful at the appalling start she’d made to married life.
Even through the door, she could hear Ayersley’s sharp sigh of frustration.
* * *
Alex jammed his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown. God only knew what the servants thought if they’d heard Roxana sobbing—that he’d turned rough, most likely, or that he’d revealed a taste for some peculiar and disturbing bedroom practice. Possibly they were placing bets belowstairs even now on which specific unnatural act he had demanded. Or perhaps they’d simply guessed the truth—that the new Countess of Ayersley was still in love with George Wyatt, and the thought of giving herself to him was so morally and physically repugnant she couldn’t face it with anything approaching equanimity.
He eyed his bed. It was the same bed he had slept in every night at Broadslieve in the seven years since he’d succeeded to the title. It was a perfectly good bed, a comfortable bed, and one he had never found lacking in any way. But looking at it now, knowing Roxana was just on the other side of the wall, it seemed to him the most unappealing spot in Christendom.
Chapter Eleven
There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear.
—1 John 4:18
Roxana found a handkerchief in a drawer in her dressing room, dried her eyes and blew her nose. However unwelcome her tearful outburst had been, it had at least eased the tension she’d kept bottled up all day. After the wakefulness of the night before, she was sure she’d be too tired to brood on the hash she’d made of her wedding night.
But as she slipped between the sheets, just thinking the words wedding night brought a painful stab of conscience. She hadn’t even been married to Ayersley a full day yet, yet here she was, already neglecting her chief duty as his wife, crying and carrying on so much she’d left him with little choice but to escape to his own room.
Poor Ayersley. She stared up at the green silk tester over her bed, a strange ache low in the pit of her stomach—the gnaw of guilt, and some other feeling she didn’t recognize.
Roxana turned over, hugging her pillow into a rounder shape. She should have put up more of an argument when Ayersley offered to leave her alone. The need to consummate their marriage wasn’t going to go away just because he’d granted her a temporary reprieve. Sooner or later, she was going to have to face up to her responsibility. M
ightn’t it be better just to get it over with?
The thought brought an unlooked-for ripple of—excitement? No, it couldn’t be that, not when she’d just sobbed in helpless hysterics at the prospect of sharing a bed with him.
Then again, at twenty-three, perhaps she was just a trifle curious about lying with a man, especially now that nothing stood in the way except her own fears. It wasn’t just permissible for her to give herself to Ayersley, it was expected. There had to be more to this conjugal business than just pain and indignity, if it produced a steady stream of scandal and the whole world had been peopled by it.
Another hour ticked by while she tossed and turned. She wondered how long it had taken Ayersley to fall asleep in his room next door. Had he stared up into the darkness, feeling cheated of the wedding night he had every right to expect?
He’d been a perfect gentleman through every step of this awful business—so stalwart during their brief engagement, so staunch throughout the wedding ceremony, so patient in the hours since. The kiss at the ball had been her fault more than his—she’d thrown herself on him, after all—but he’d unflinchingly offered marriage to save her from disgrace. He deserved her gratitude, not the shrinking hysterics she’d displayed.
Somewhere in the distant recesses of the house, a clock struck two. Hard to believe it had been less than twenty-four hours since she’d sat on the edge of her bed at Riddlefield with her mother, listening to Mama explain what to expect. How would it feel to be that close to another person, so close he became a part of her? And her mother had assured her men enjoyed it. If she could only get past her fears…
Roxana lay awake, alternately relieved and anxious, guilty and aching, until she realized it was growing faintly lighter outside her windows. She sat up and peered across the room to the clock on the mantel. It was nearly five o’clock. Had she really fretted and sighed through an entire night?
With sudden resolve, she threw back the bedcovers and slipped out of bed. She drew a deep, bracing breath, crossed to the door that connected the two bedrooms and swung it open.
In Ayersley’s room, the dim glow of early dawn revealed a large uncluttered chamber, a masculine mirror image of her own. A mahogany bed hung in dark blue damask dominated the room. She marched up to it and drew back the bedcurtains to wake Ayersley.
The bed was empty. As she stared in confusion, the words she’d been about to say dying on her lips, a stir on the other side of the room made her turn. Ayersley was rising with a startled face from a leather armchair.
“Roxana?” He had a deck of cards in his hand, and beside the chair stood a guttering candle, several columns of cards laid out on the floor around it. Apparently he’d been playing Patience.
At his questioning look, she gnawed her lower lip. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Neither could I.” Otherwise stock-still, he glanced down at the cards in his hand.
“I’m sorry to disturb you at such an hour, but I feel perfectly wretched about before. I don’t know what excuse to make, except perhaps that all the emotions of the day caught up with me at once.”
He shook his head. “It’s all right. You needn’t apologize.”
Well, she’d come this far. There seemed little to do except plunge in the rest of the way. “If you’re willing to give it another try, I promise not to be so missish. Please, could you…could we…?” Unable to complete the sentence, she gestured over her shoulder toward her room. “Before the sun comes up, I mean, and our wedding night is completely over?”
He blinked at her. “I’m not sure I understand you. You want me to take you to bed now?” He wore a befuddled look, as if she’d just told him her name was Rumpelstiltskin and she could spin thread into gold.
She nodded. “If you don’t mind.” She cast him a look of entreaty. “Please?”
The cards he’d been holding dropped from his hand and scattered at his feet. He nodded wordlessly.
Her heart began to pound. Of course the fright would come back now, when she’d already crossed the Rubicon—though, oddly enough, it was an unfamiliar kind of fright, one that felt as much like anticipation as dread. She turned back to the connecting door, but before she could reach for the knob, Ayersley crossed the room in a bound to open it for her.
She kept her eyes on the floor as she slipped past him and into her bedchamber. He followed, only a half step behind her.
When she reached the bed, she turned to face him again. He was standing so close she had to tip her head back to meet his eyes. She swallowed nervously. “What should I do?”
A hectic flush stained his cheeks. “The first thing you should do is relax, though I realize that’s easier said than done.”
She had been twisting her fingers together nervously, but with an effort she let her hands drop to her sides. They smiled uncertainly at each other. Stiffly—for a moment she had the impression he was even more nervous than she—he took her in his arms. Roxana steeled herself not to shrink away. This was going to be even more awkward than she’d feared, but at least they would get it over with.
Then he leaned his head down and kissed her.
Oh, but this was how she had always dreamt a kiss should be—long, slow and so achingly sweet that for a moment she thought her knees were going to give out under her. When he’d kissed her at the ball, she’d assumed her head was spinning only because she had just sobbed out her misery on his shoulder, not because there was anything magic in his kiss.
Perhaps there was still nothing magic in his kiss. Who wouldn’t feel dizzy, after all, knowing the irrevocable step they were about to take? But when the kiss ended at last, it left her so astonished she could only stare up at him in wonder.
He gazed back at her, his pupils dilated, the blue of his eyes almost entirely swallowed up in black. “You’re sure this is what you want?” he asked, an edge of barely suppressed urgency in his voice.
She could only nod.
He kissed her again. His hand came up to cup the back of her head. And he didn’t just kiss her lips, but drew away to kiss her temples and the place where her pulse beat in her throat. With a faint, thrilling shock, she realized the hard length that had been nudging her lower abdomen since almost the first moment he’d taken her in his arms was him. From just north of her ear, he rasped, “Tell me if I go too fast.”
The huskiness in his voice sent a shiver through her. He kissed her lips again, his mouth opening against hers. Oh, my. Ayersley kissed the same way he danced—as if it came instinctively to him, requiring no thought or effort, and therefore not subject to any of his usual doubts or hesitations.
She ran her hand over his shoulders, exploring the surprisingly well-muscled shape of him. Her arms crept around his neck. She buried her fingers in his hair where it met his collar, and discovered it was as soft and thick as sable.
His tongue stroked hers, waking an unfamiliar heat in her breasts and lower still, between her legs. It was the same ache she’d felt earlier as she’d tossed and turned in bed, only now she realized it was the feel of frustrated desire. She tipped her head back as he kissed her throat.
“Roxana,” Ayersley murmured, an odd catch in his voice. “You smell like lavender. I never thought of that…”
She wasn’t sure what he meant, but when his hand slid to her collarbone, skin on fevered skin, it drove any questions from her head. Her breasts felt heavy and full. She shocked herself by hoping he would touch them.
And then he did just that, caressing her, sighing as his hand cupped her breast through the thin lawn of her nightgown. Strangely, she wasn’t at all frightened. Far from shrinking away, she leaned into his touch.
His hardness pressed insistently against her belly. Some impulse—curiosity, a wanton instinct, or a reflex attempt to shift the unfamiliar prodding to a new spot, she didn’t know—made her reach down to slip her hand between them, running her palm over the bulge that tented his dressing gown.
He closed his eyes and sagged against the bedpost behind him.
Alarmed, Roxana yanked back her hand. “Oh, I’m sorry! Did I hurt you?”
“No,” he said hoarsely, and laughed. “Not exactly.”
He looked dazed, as if he were halfway to insensibility. Her hand tingled. She had no notion what had possessed her to touch him that way. “Perhaps I’d better get in bed.”
He nodded, panting as if he’d just run a footrace. “Yes.”
Sliding between the sheets, Roxana watched nervously as he stripped off his dressing gown. When he cast the heavier garment aside, the light drape of his nightshirt revealed the lines of his body. Broad shoulders, lean torso, and—and that distinctly male part of him again, standing at attention. She looked away quickly, alarm racing through her anew. Beneath the weight of his dressing gown, it had not looked quite so large.
He climbed into bed, and her heart pounded as he slid over to join her. Now they would finish what they had started. But it no longer seemed like an indignity. It seemed…right, though she hoped he would be quick.
He wasn’t quick. Instead he went back to kissing her, long, stirring kisses, their tongues twining, his weight partly on his arms and partly on her, a satisfying heaviness that pressed her deep into the feather mattress. He caressed her breast again, stroking his thumb lightly over its taut peak. She gave an involuntary “Oh!” of pleasure, making the sound into his mouth because of the way they were kissing.
He moved off her just enough to open the buttons at the top of her nightdress, peeling back the yoke of her gown and slipping his hand inside. She closed her eyes, bursting and empty at the same time. The warmth between her thighs had grown to an unrelenting throb. What was happening to her cold nature?
A moment later, his mouth was at her breast, suckling gently, teasing her with his tongue. And—oh—her mother had never mentioned anything like this. It felt so good, she could hardly keep from squirming.
She must have helped him to lift the hem of her nightdress, for the next thing she knew, the sheets were cool against her bare legs. Her fears had somehow changed into impatience—though how she could be impatient when she wasn’t the least bit in love with Ayersley, she lacked the presence of mind to question.
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