The quiet room seemed to magnify the sound of their quickened breathing. His hand trailed from her breast down over her hip. She had wanted him to hurry, and this was slow, delicious torment. Then he touched her in the heated, aching place between her thighs, and her first stifled gasp was at the pleasure of it, not the shock.
“It’s all right,” he said quickly, clearly misinterpreting the catch in her breath. “We’re married now.”
We’re married. She wondered when it had gone from being a disturbing thought to a reassuring one.
Long, gentle fingers stroked a spot so sensitive she could have swooned. Instinctively she brought her knees up, spreading her legs further apart. She felt—she felt wet.
She froze, waiting for him to draw back or show some sign of disgust. But he went on touching her, and when she dared to steal another glance at his face, he wore a flushed, slightly dazed expression, as if he’d had one glass of wine too many and rather liked the feeling.
And the way he touched her… How had a man like Ayersley learned to do such things? Before long, she was so swept up in sensation she had to bite her lip to keep from whimpering.
He moved to cover her body with his, bracing himself on his elbows. So they had reached the point of no return. She made a surprising discovery. “Now you’re shaking!”
“It’s all right,” he said at once, his voice ragged. “It’s—it’s a different kind of shaking.” He met her gaze and gave her a slight, apologetic smile. “This part may hurt, but I’ll be as careful as I can.”
Nodding, she dug her nails into her palms and readied herself for pain. He closed his eyes, his lashes dark against his skin, and began to push slowly inside her while she stared up at his handsome, intent face. How astonishing—this was Ayersley, and he was her husband.
A sudden twinge made her give an involuntary gasp.
“Sorry,” he said quickly, wincing as if he’d felt it too.
But the pain was already fading. Could that quick flash of discomfort, that one brief pang, really be the pain her mother had mentioned? Was that what she’d been so afraid of? She wanted to laugh at her own foolishness.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered, more excited now than nervous. The feeling of fullness, of warmth and completeness, was so satisfying it took her breath away. “It didn’t hurt that much and—ooooh.”
Surprise forced the last syllable out of her, for he’d begun to move. And if everything else so far had felt good, then this was so far beyond the rest, it was like comparing dust to diamonds. Roxana lay staring up at him in openmouthed astonishment as he eased rhythmically in and out, gliding flesh against flesh.
Dear God, no wonder there were so many fallen women in the world when falling felt this good. Every slow thrust brought a fresh thrill of pleasure. She fought a powerful urge to lift her hips to meet his, to be even closer to him, if such a thing were possible.
“You don’t have to hold still,” he said as if he’d read her thoughts, his face grown dusky with passion. “Do whatever feels good to you.”
Obediently, she brought her knees up higher. He shifted his body slightly, and the feeling took on a different character—no longer just satisfying, but now so acutely pleasurable she wasn’t sure how long she could stand it.
The pleasurable feeling grew until it began to assume an alarming intensity, as if all the energy in her body were concentrating in the place where they were joined. Something powerful and earth-shattering was building inside her, something that was going to make her scream if she didn’t stop it, something that would surely shake her apart. She tensed and held her breath, hoping she could ward the nameless feeling off.
Ayersley slowed his rhythm. “Relax.”
But she was too frightened of the alien sensation. “I can’t.”
Despite his flushed cheeks and ragged breath, Ayersley stilled. “Am I hurting you?”
She shook her head. The feeling had been as far from pain as it was possible to be, but she couldn’t bear much more of it. “Not exactly, but—this isn’t going to last much longer, is it?”
He looked indecisive for a moment. Then he sighed, said “No,” and began moving in her more forcefully. Soon his normally gentle expression had turned almost fierce. He gave a final powerful thrust and bowed his head, groaning as a shudder ran through him. Alarm seized her at the sound. Something was wrong. But the next sound he made was so obviously one of pleasure, it brought a thrill of wonder.
Seconds later, he went heavy atop her.
Roxana gulped. With his eyes closed, Ayersley looked younger and more peaceful. Familiar, yet different too.
Was he sleeping? Her mother had said men slept when it was over. But then, perhaps her mother wasn’t the most reliable authority. She had described this part of marriage as if it were a trial to be endured, when all Roxana’s senses were humming. Her mother hadn’t mentioned that terrifying out-of-control sensation, either.
Ayersley stirred and opened his eyes. Face-to-face, they gazed at each other in the faint light of early dawn. “You weren’t sure what to expect this time,” he said with a wistful expression. “It will get better.”
Better? Aside from that feeling near the end, it had been wonderful beyond anything she could have imagined. She was thankful, relieved, elated. She closed her eyes and sighed.
Most of Ayersley’s weight was still on his elbows. “I’d better get off you. I’ll fall asleep like this if I don’t take care.”
Though he sounded drowsy, she didn’t want him to go. He’d been warm atop her, and she was cold with the buttons of her nightgown still undone and the chill air touching her skin. How else to explain why she felt so lost when he withdrew?
But to her surprise, he reached over and pulled her against him. They lay on their sides, her back against his chest, her head pillowed on his arm. She sighed again. She was really and truly a wife now. Married. Not to George, but to Ayersley. Oddly enough, the idea no longer distressed her as it had before.
She was glad Ayersley had made no move to leave and go to his room. She felt warm and protected, curled up against him. His breath was soft and steady—so steady, she wondered whether he was still awake.
“Ayersley?” she whispered.
“Mmm…”
“You were right. It was not like Tom’s dog at all.”
He chuckled, just inches from her ear. She snuggled closer.
Her eyes grew heavy. Ayersley would look after her, even if theirs was not a love match. She was grateful for that, and for the patient way he’d begun their married life together. She could count on him to be kind. And she would be a good wife to him. She would make sure he had no cause to regret marrying her.
How warm and comfortable it was, sharing a bed with him.
For the first time in weeks, Roxana fell asleep with a smile on her face.
Chapter Twelve
Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?
—Jeremiah 13:23
Alex slipped out of bed before Roxana woke. She looked so lovely, sleeping. Her flaxen hair lay fanned across the pillow and a delicate flush tinged her cheeks. He stood by the bed and drank in his fill of the sight before letting himself quietly back into his room.
Her first time was behind them now. While he could hardly call it a resounding success, it was a beginning, and at least she hadn’t cried out Wyatt’s name in the throes of passion.
Not that she’d ever really been in the throes of passion.
Frowning, he rang for his valet. He knew he should stop dwelling on what he didn’t have and learn to count his blessings. They were still husband and wife. They’d just shared a bed for the first time. Only a month ago, it was more than he would have dreamed possible.
“It’s nearly ten o’clock, my lord,” his valet said when he answered Alex’s summons, as if Alex owed him some explanation for rising four hours late.
“Yes, I’m well aware of the time, Hobbes.” Alex ignored the inquisitive glances his valet
threw him as he laid out his clothes.
No, his wedding night had not been a great success. But next time, Roxana would not be so nervous, and he would make a better showing.
Bathed, shaved and dressed, he headed downstairs to the breakfast parlor. He felt a bit more optimistic after a plate of ham and eggs. He was reading his newspaper when, to his surprise, Roxana came sailing in, dressed neatly in a pink morning gown.
Alex rose in confusion. “Good morning. I thought you would take your breakfast in your room.”
“Oh, no, I’m used to coming downstairs,” she said brightly as she filled a plate from the sideboard. “You know my mother—she doesn’t believe in lying in bed half the day. And good morning to you too.”
What did a man say when he came unexpectedly face-to-face with his new bride after their first night together—especially when, in his best efforts not to hurt her, he knew he’d left her unsatisfied? Alex felt like an actor steeling himself for the bad reviews on the morning after a disastrous performance.
Smiling, plate in hand, Roxana plunked herself down across from him. “I’m positively famished.”
Returning her smile uncertainly, he glanced down at his folded Chronicle.
She craned her neck to peer at the newsprint. “Is there anything noteworthy in the paper this morning?”
A single blond tress had come free of its coil, and she tucked it behind her ear. Being in bed with her had been an assault on his senses—the yielding softness of her breasts, the taste of her mouth, the lavender scent of her skin. She’d always reminded him of champagne, but a man drank champagne cold, while she’d been warm and full of life.
He shook his head to clear it. “There’s, er—” gad, he was tripping over his words even worse than usual, “—some controversy relating to the laying of new p-pipes to extend the gas lines.”
“Oh.” She stirred her tea, her brow wrinkling. “I’ve heard gaslight is the coming thing.”
“Yes. It’s a marvelous innovation.” He fiddled absently with the handle of his empty teacup without looking up. “How is your, um, schedule today? Did you have anything planned for this morning?”
“My schedule?”
“Yes, it’s your first morning here, and—”
“Oh, I see.” Her brow creased in a frown. “Well, I could meet with the cook, and there are a great many things I’ll need to ask the housekeeper—where various things are kept, and what day off each of the upper servants expects, and so forth. Why? Did you have something else you wished me to do?”
Clearly, he’d been expecting too much, supposing she’d want to spend the day together. “I was going to ask if you wished to go riding, but if you mean to tour the house, I have business of my own I should attend to. I do have letters to write, now that our wedding is out of the way.”
“Are you sure? I’d be happy to ride with you, if you’d prefer.”
Despite the civility of the offer, he hadn’t missed her frown. He shook his head. “I wasn’t trying to shame you into it. In fact, I’m having a threshing machine installed on the home farm, and if I do go for a ride, I should check on the progress of the work. It would be a dirty, disagreeable errand for you.”
She reached for the teapot. “Shall I pour you some more?”
“Oh—no, thank you. I normally limit myself to two cups in the morning.”
She sighed. “Then please don’t let me keep you.”
“I’m sure I can spare a few minutes. I doubt Oliver is even at his desk yet. Normally, he’s a model of industry, but this is hardly a typical morning.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s still recovering from our wedding breakfast.”
Alex smiled. “He did look a trifle cup-shot yesterday, didn’t he?”
Roxana smiled back but glanced at his empty plate. “You don’t have to stay here with me, Ayersley. It’s most polite of you, but I came late to the table, and I don’t mean to keep you from your work.”
He knew a dismissal when he heard one. He rose. “If you’re sure you would not rather go riding…”
“Oh, no,” she said in a hearty voice. “I know how it would be. We would both feel compelled to make small talk, while secretly counting the minutes until we could get back to our own occupations. Go on, Ayersley. I don’t mind.”
No, of course she didn’t mind. For a moment, he wondered if he’d only bought himself more heartache, marrying Roxana when she felt nothing for him.
But this was only the first day, and it was far too soon to turn pessimistic. Inclining his head in a bow, Alex bid her a good day and left to work in his study.
* * *
“My dear! What on earth are you doing here?”
Greeting Roxana in the dower house, her new mother-in-law looked more surprised than pleased.
Roxana glanced around at the comfortably furnished sitting room with its distinctly feminine touches—the walls of sunny yellow, the Aubusson rug, the pair of rosewood armchairs cushioned in calamine blue, the blue-and-yellow striped sofa. The room felt so bright and pleasant, it was like a breath of fresh air after the austere grandeur of Broadslieve. “Have I come at a bad time?”
The countess drew her over to the sofa. “No, not at all. I simply wasn’t expecting to see you so soon. You’re a welcome sight, make no mistake, but I assumed you and Alex would want to spend the day together.”
Roxana had assumed as much too. After so many days of dreading marriage to Ayersley, her wedding night had been a revelation, and she’d awoken with the exhilarating sense the future was once again full of possibility. She was a wife now, not some green girl, and the earl was not the fumbling and proper lover she had feared. Her marriage didn’t have to be a polite prison. She’d been so impatient to see Ayersley again, she’d dressed with unseemly haste and hurried down to breakfast.
But as she’d taken in her new husband’s appearance over the breakfast table, it had dawned on her she was the only one in buoyant spirits. Ayersley had looked as sober and correct as ever—clean-shaven, tidy, his dark coat buttoned up nearly to his chin. It had been hard to believe the serious young gentleman sitting across from her in his conservative clothing was the same man who’d kissed her into breathlessness only hours before. The intimacy, the closeness—that sense of a real connection with him—had been nothing but a product of her imagination.
Roxana’s newfound optimism had faded away, as insubstantial as a tendril of smoke from a snuffed-out candle. She wasn’t sure precisely what kind of transformation she’d been expecting. A blinding, confident grin? Passionate, smoldering looks? It was foolish to have expected any change in him at all. Of course he was the same. She had a new life, with a new home and a new title. She was a bride now, not a maiden anymore. It had been her first time, but not his. Why should he be any different?
What they had done was just a basic fact of marriage. It didn’t mean they had become lovers in the true sense of the word. He wasn’t going to suddenly burst into song or wax poetic or leap across the table to ravish her on the floor of the breakfast parlor. He remained the same incurably serious young man she had known all her life.
Then he had asked her about her schedule, and she’d had a crystal-clear vision of her future, a lifetime of sedate and practical good-mornings. They would begin with tea—two cups, no more—move to a perfunctory discussion of the newspaper and quickly settle down to business. Perhaps if some great crisis loomed, they might permit a brief deviation from routine, but they would enact no great romantic scenes over Ayersley’s highly civilized breakfast table.
Now Roxana smiled self-consciously at her mother-in-law as the dowager countess settled herself on the sofa across from her. “He did offer this morning, but he had work to do. Besides, I want to learn more about my new duties.”
Roxana had spent the hours since breakfast conferring with the housekeeper and the butler, touring Broadslieve from top to bottom. There were large parts of the house she’d never seen before, and they left her in fresh awe of h
er new home and her position as its mistress. Riddlefield was comfortable enough, to be sure, but one could fit two or three Riddlefields within the gilt-and-marble opulence of Broadslieve.
The clocks were striking one by the time she’d finished her tour. Unfortunately, when Roxana asked the housekeeper what time Ayersley stopped for luncheon, she’d replied, “He doesn’t, my lady. His lordship doesn’t like to interrupt his work.”
So, disappointed and unsure how to fill the rest of the afternoon, Roxana had hit on the notion of visiting her mother-in-law and asking her advice. After all, she’d once been in Roxana’s shoes—a new bride, taking up unfamiliar responsibilities. Roxana had crossed the park on foot to the dower house, where the dowager countess now regarded her with a worried look.
“There’s no need to rush things,” she said as a footman entered with the tea cart. “The servants will keep the household running smoothly, and you can learn as you go.”
“But I want to make myself useful. I believe that’s what Ayersley needs in a wife—a good manager. Don’t you agree?”
To her surprise, her new mother-in-law sighed and shook her head. “I’m afraid you have it wrong, my dear. The last thing this family needs is another slave to duty. I was hoping you might prove a good influence on him. Or do I mean bad influence?” She leaned forward to speak in a confiding tone. “I had in mind that you should tempt him away from his responsibilities now and then, you see. That is what he really needs in a wife.”
Unbidden, the memory of Ayersley’s face in bed that morning popped into Roxana’s head, bringing with it a hot blush. “He can always seek me out when he wants company, ma’am.”
Her mother-in-law studied her heated cheeks. “But he won’t, you know,” she said gently. “He’s responsible to a fault. And I begin to fear you may be cut from the same cloth.”
“It’s only that he had a great deal of catching up to do today,” Roxana said in Ayersley’s defense. “He told me at breakfast he’d had to let his letter writing wait until he could get our wedding out of the way.”
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