His Reluctant Lady

by Aydra Richards

  “Oh, very.” His warm hands pulled her gown to her waist, then began tugging her chemise free. “Were I you, I’d be too embarrassed to leave my room for…oh, at least a week.” He yanked his arm free of his coat for her, once he’d wrested her chemise from beneath her gown.

  Her lips quirked upward, a bubble of laughter lodged once more in her throat. “It wouldn’t help. She brings me my meals.”

  “Then perhaps you ought to take meals in the dining room,” he said. “With your sisters and I.” His hands slipped beneath her chemise, sliding over her skin as he eased the fabric upward.

  “Hmm,” she said, noncommittally, and lifted her arms to let him drag the material over her head. For once she had the satisfaction of seeing him without words. He held her linen chemise in his hands, and his fingers twitched in the fabric, but his eyes were riveted to her breasts.

  “My God, Poppy.” His voice had dropped a full octave, and he sat still as a stone for at least twenty seconds, fists clenched around the ball of fabric, half in and half out of his evening coat, waistcoat unbuttoned, cravat askew.

  She might have felt uncomfortable to be so exposed, had there not been the unmistakable gleam of desire darkening his eyes. He cast her chemise aside and leapt upon her like a wolf—she sailed backward into the mound of pillows, and his groan was lost in the hollow of her throat as his hands slipped over her ribs to cup her breasts. His fingers slid over her skin with a reverence that made her tremble, made her draw up her legs—and stop, hindered by the fabric still bunched around her waist and lower.

  “David,” she managed to whisper, as his thumbs brushed over her nipples, drawing them into taut peaks. “David. You’ve got to get up.”

  “No,” he said petulantly against the curve of her right breast. “You’ll come to your senses and tell me to go.” A kiss followed, sweeping along her flesh. “You spend altogether too much time thinking.”

  She wasn’t going to tell him to go. This was a moment out of time, a selfish act she had allowed herself to indulge in. She meant to make the most of it. “You need to get up because you’re laying on my dress,” she said. “And I’m fairly certain you’ve on far too many clothes.”

  His hands still curled possessively around her breasts, he lifted his head and peered at her as if he could divine the veracity of her words. Whatever he saw in her face had him lifting himself to press a fierce kiss to her lips and vaulting for the floor, his hands attacking his disheveled clothing. His coat flew across the room, and his waistcoat was not far behind it. She’d meant to untie her slippers and remove her stockings in the meantime, but she paused, spellbound, as he tugged his shirt free of his trousers and pulled it over his head. His muscles bunched and flexed with the movement, a symphony of motion, powerful and raw. His chest was broad, broader than she would have thought—somehow clothing tamed him, made him seem less than he was.

  She thought, absently, of how she would have described him in a novel. Beautiful? That was true enough, but so shallow a word. Striking? That was also true, but it didn’t encapsulate his fallen-angel face, or the strength scored into each band of muscle.

  Elemental, she decided. It raced through her mind, igniting a spark of zeal that made her long for her pen.

  He lifted his head and caught her staring as his hands drifted to the placket of his trousers. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “You want me to go,” he said.

  “No,” she said. “No, I—” She cleared her throat, gave a sheepish shrug. “Unmarried ladies aren’t permitted to see naked men,” she offered weakly.

  Something warm kindled in his eyes and a slow grin spread across his face. “My darling, inquisitive Poppy,” he said. “Of course I will indulge you.” The buttons fell away beneath the efficient workings of his fingers, and then he was stripping off his trousers and smallclothes, casting the offending garments aside.

  “Oh, my.” She couldn’t seem to summon forth anything more appropriate to say. “Can I—” She was already extending her hand in silent inquiry.

  He gave a rough bark of laughter. “I’ll probably die if you don’t.” He caught her hand in his, wrapped it around his shaft, let her explore the feel of him beneath her fingers. The skin was thin, but it felt as though it encased a rod of steel. She slid her fingers higher, circling the broad head with the pad of her thumb, marveling at the silky bead of moisture that welled beneath it. He hissed in a breath, and her eyes flew to his face, reading his tortured expression.

  “I’m hurting you.” She tried to jerk her hand away, but his hand cupped hers, holding her in place.

  “You’re killing me.” His free hand slid into her hair, drew her close for a kiss. “I love it.” With infinite patience he showed her the motion, the rhythm, bearing her untutored caresses like a man stretched out on the rack. All too soon he drew her hand away, having been pushed to his limit.

  As he untied the ribbons of her slippers, he asked, “Do you know what to expect?”

  “I’m not ignorant,” she said, somewhat defensively. “Papa’s estate borders a sheep farm.”

  He made a low sound in his throat, a rumble of laughter. “A sheep farm. My, you are knowledgeable, then.”

  She aimed a whack at his chest, but distracted herself with the light dusting of golden hair scattered there, and ended up trailing her fingers across it instead. Fascinated by the play of sleek skin over hard muscle, she traced the lines and ridges until he caught her hands and dragged them to his shoulders.

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” His voice was gritty, as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of sand. Somewhat less than composed, his fingers fumbled in the strings tying her petticoats—but at last he gripped fistfuls of her skirt and gave a firm tug, and they came sliding off her legs to land in a puff of silk on the floor. His hands slid up her legs, the silk of her stockings slipping beneath his fingers. “I would have expected wool,” he said.

  She felt her cheeks growing pink. “Jilly brought them with the slippers,” she said. And then admitted, in a slightly-miffed tone, “My own stockings are wool.”

  He gave a huff of laughter, and was still laughing as he untied her garters and slipped her stockings down her legs. “You should have silk stockings,” he said, as his hand curled around her foot. He pressed a kiss to her instep that made her gasp and wriggle her toes.

  “They’re so expensive,” she said breathlessly. “I don’t need them. Who would ever see them anyway?”

  “I would.” His lips touched her ankle, slid over her calf. “Allow me to rephrase. My countess wears silk stockings,” he said. “And frivolous French gowns. And jewels.”

  Belatedly she realized the string of pearls was still clasped around her neck, but he stayed her hands when she would have removed them.

  “Leave those on,” he said, pressing her back into the pillows. She was cast into the shadows created by his broad shoulders, which blocked the light of the lamp.

  His weight settled over her, and she felt the shock of his bare skin against her own, the vaguely threatening pressure of his arousal against the softness of her belly. “But—they should go back, shouldn’t they? With—with the rest of the jewelry.”

  “They don’t belong to the estate. I purchased them for you.” He nudged her head to the side and tasted the delicate skin beneath her ear. “Put your hands on my shoulders,” he said, and her hands, which had been lying at her sides, came up to do just that, her nails unconsciously needling his skin. He shuddered, suppressing a groan. “Just like that,” he said. “I never could get both of your gloves off at the same time. There were always too many layers between your nails and my skin.”

  His voice had lowered to a deep rasp, shivering along her nerve endings. She wasn’t quite certain what she was meant to do, but she knew at least that he liked the pressure of her nails, and so she dragged them along the warm, bare skin of his back until he made a fierce sound against her throat and his big body shuddered over hers, his hips pressing hers into the mattress beneath them. His lips burned
a path down her chest, and his tongue curled around her nipple, and she made a shameful sound in her throat as he drew her into his mouth, caressing her with teeth and tongue, the heated suction sending a current of flame between her thighs, rekindling that sweet ache.

  On instinct her legs drew up, cradling him there between them, sliding against his own with a friction that made him suck in a breath against her breast. He shifted his weight to one arm, and his free hand slid between them, slipping over soft curls and softer skin, seeking out the damp heat of her core. He gave a groan, and his chest heaved with his fractured breaths.

  “God. Poppy. I can’t wait.” His hands slid beneath her bottom, lifting her, positioning himself, laving that part of him in the dampness he’d drawn from her body. The slick glide made her toes curl, her knees clamp around him. Her arms threaded around his neck, and her nails raked through the sleek hair at his nape.

  Wedged between her thighs, he canted his hips and pressed forward, his body breaching hers with an insistent pressure. It burned in a way his fingers had not, stretching tender tissues until her eyes burned with tears at the pain. She gritted her teeth against the frustrated sob that stung in her throat.

  A mirthless laugh escaped him, and he withdrew from her, easing the ache. “You would have to be difficult,” he muttered.

  Annoyed with herself for having let a little pain make such a ninny of her, she snapped, “Oh, just do it and get it over with,” but even her voice sounded tearful and she released her hold on his neck to press her hands to her eyes.

  His grin flashed white, something far less than composed and dangerously close to feral. “Don’t be a nag,” he said, softening the words with a kiss. Settling back, he hooked his arms through her knees, pulling her toward him until she squeaked in surprise to find her legs dangling over his thighs and his palm flattened over her belly. She could still feel him there, pressed against her, but instead of pushing inside her again, he let his fingers sift through the dark hair between her legs, effortlessly finding the sensitized heart of her, stroking her languidly until she couldn’t help lifting her hips into his hand.

  She could feel it happening again, that mindless rapture that would soon sweep over her. Clutching the pillow beneath her head she struggled to gasp out, “This isn’t—you were supposed to—”

  “With all due respect, darling, I think I’ve a shred more experience than you.” His color was high, and his muscles bunched as if in preparation for…something. A fine sheen of sweat misted his forehead, and he growled, “Goddammit, Poppy—just let it happen.”

  She was certain it was dreadfully rude of him to have sworn at her, especially in this particular situation—but she couldn’t even manage to upbraid him for it. Her back arched, and her hands fisted in her pillow, and a little scream of pleasure tore from her throat. An instant later, her inner muscles which had once clenched on emptiness found something to grasp as he surged inside her. There was a brief flicker of pain, which her mind discarded as inconsequential when weighed against the cresting waves of pleasure.

  His weight fell over her again, and he moved in strong lunges, as if something wild and primitive inside him had slipped its leash. With the last bit of conscious thought to which she could lay claim, she cast her arms around him, clutching his shoulders to anchor herself, and surrendered to the storm that broke over them.

  A moment after her own tremors had finally begun to ease, he thrust deep and held, his body quaking as he buried his face in the curve of her shoulder and made a rough, undignified sound that tickled her ear. Every taut muscle of her body had begun to relax, the tension stealing away into a blissful weariness that persisted even after he lifted himself off of her and collapsed onto his back, breathing raggedly.

  She had thought she would have sprung instantly from the bed to observe herself in her cheval glass, to find out what a debauched woman truly looked like—but she found it was enough of an effort even to stir herself to roll onto her side, to turn her cheek into her pillow. Sleep beckoned at the fringes of her mind, enfolding her in its warm embrace.

  “Well,” she sighed. “I certainly cannot put that in a novel.” And his startled burst of laughter followed her into sleep.

  ∞∞∞

  David had not comported him particularly well, but he reassured himself that his wife, given her limited experience, could hardly be aware of it. Still, it had been a long while since he had been so undisciplined—like a callow youth, he’d lasted little more than a minute inside her. He might’ve been ashamed of his uncharacteristic inadequacy, except that Poppy had not seemed to mind.

  It had been his own fault. He’d wanted her to recall the pleasure, not the pain—but he’d been unprepared for how very small she was, how tight. It had been impossible for him to ride out those incredible spasms, impossible to do anything but pray he hadn’t hurt her in his intemperance.

  And he had gone to such an effort not to hurt her—while she had snapped at him to just do it and get it over with. A chuckle lodged in his throat, and he swiped his hand over his forehead to wipe the cooling sweat from it. He couldn’t recall the last time a woman had admonished him in bed. He doubted even that there had been such a time.

  But then, his wife was hardly the sort of woman he would have bedded in the past. She was mouthy and shrewdly intelligent, far too inquisitive for her own good, without a shred of simpering sweetness in her. Oh, she was sufficiently sweet—but there was no calculation in it, no coquettishness. She was just…Poppy. And that was enough.

  “I meant what I said,” he murmured, loath to disturb the pleasant silence. “I don’t want a mistress. And there won’t be an annulment.” Certainly there couldn’t be one now.

  She made no response. Which was strange, given that he’d expected something of a protest.

  “Poppy?” He lifted his head from the pillow. Good lord—she’d fallen asleep.

  She faced away from him, on her side, with her hands tucked up beneath her chin. The strand of pearls glowed around her neck, peeping through the wild tangle of her dark hair like stars out of the night sky. Her legs were long and lean, and she tucked her feet together like he imagined a child would do. The arch of her back tempted him to trace her spine with his fingertips, but he resisted the enticement, lest he disturb her sleep.

  Instead he carefully eased the covers out from beneath her. She made a tiny sound of discontentment in her throat, twitching in that restless-sleeper way she had. As he drew the covers over the both of them and tugged at the bed curtains, she gave a little contented hum. It was easy enough to slip his arm over her waist, and it settled perfectly into the indent there as if she had been fashioned for this very purpose.

  She twitched again as he eased closer, shifting his head onto the pillow beside hers. Restive, she wriggled, her knees drawing up.

  He flattened his palm against her belly and commanded softly in her ear, “Settle.” And she did. The lingering tension went out of her, and the curvature of her spine relaxed until her back was flush against his chest. Her knees tucked up against his, and her pert little bottom rested in the cradle of his hips. It was more comfortable than he would have expected.

  Perhaps there was something to be said for sharing a bed with a lover after all.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  If David had hoped to wake in the same situation he’d slept, with his wife all tucked and curled into his arms, he was bound for disappointment. It was late when he stirred at last, and though the curtains had been drawn around the bed—presumably to protect the modesty of the maids who’d swept in earlier to light the morning fire and give the room a cursory tidying—the space beside him was cool. Poppy had risen some time ago, and had not even bothered to wake him in the doing of it.

  Some part of him, strange though it was, felt perversely used and abandoned. He’d deigned, for the first time in his life, to spend the night through with a woman, and she hadn’t even bothered to stay around long enough to wish him good day?

&n
bsp; And he’d entertained hopes of redeeming himself this morning. If she hadn’t been too sore to indulge him. Which hardly mattered now, since she was clearly not around to indulge him.

  Battling his annoyance, he surged out of bed and strode through the connecting door, intent on making himself decent enough to go in search of his errant wife.

  A bath and a shave had delayed him somewhat, but he’d long since missed breakfast anyway. Perhaps, if he could manage to run Poppy to ground, she might even be convinced to explore the possibilities of a late breakfast in bed. Just the thought put a spring in his step, and he was whistling jovially as he vaulted down the stairs, pausing only long enough to inquire of a passing maid if she’d seen Poppy lately. She directed him to the drawing room, where apparently Poppy had sent for tea some time ago.

  The clink of china was the only sound emanating from the drawing room as he approached. He summoned his most charming smile as he rounded the corner and stepped through the doorway. “I missed you this—”

  The words died on his lips. The maid had failed to indicate that Poppy was not alone in the drawing room. She sat on the couch, garbed in yet another of her wretched, uncomfortable-looking gowns, her hair twisted into a severe topknot. Across from her, in a large, wingback chair that had clearly been fetched from the library, sat a portly gentleman of some fifty years, his greying mustache twitching as he studied the pages he held in his hand.

  Poppy cleared her throat delicately. “Westwood, this is Mr. Albert Plessing, my publisher. I thought it more prudent to have him come here than to visit his home in Cheapside.”

  Of course it would be more prudent. A countess calling upon a gentleman of business at his home would have an unsavory look about it, and there were doubtless still those just waiting for her to prove herself unworthy of the title she had attained.