by Cheryl Bolen
How, she wondered, could such an uncomfortable action bring her such delirious pleasure? Would she always be this sore, or would the discomfort diminish with practice? Nick would know. If she had the brazenness to ask him. And, Good Lord, how could this bedchamber be this hot in the dead of winter? Were she wearing something it would have been completely drenched. Like her. Even her hair was damp and clung to her head.
When she felt Nick’s seed seeping through her, profound emotions swept over her. She really was his wife. She could quite possibly bear his child. Something in her heart rolled over at the thought. A very pleasant thought, to be sure.
From this moment on, there was no turning back. She was irrevocably bound to the enigmatic man whose shaft was buried in her at this very second.
Like she had done, he stilled, then began to tremble. Only he called out her name. “Oh God, Fiona!” At first she thought something was wrong with him, then she realized he was not dissatisfied. Not dissatisfied at all.
A moment later he slipped from her and rolled to her side, his body sleek with sweat. His gentle hand swept the moist hair from her brow, and he bent to press a soft kiss there. “There’s one other thing I neglected to tell you about being sexually aroused,” he said.
“What is that?” she asked in a breathless voice.
“After the deed is done, one feels as if one’s just run uphill.”
That explained the sweating. And the breathlessness. So far all of her reactions had been perfectly normal. Even the pointed nipples. The thought of her breasts being erotic sent pulsebeats of pleasure licking at her.
She lay there in the darkness, Nick tugging her to his chest, and she felt completely blissful. Except for the devilish soreness.
“Oh, love,” he murmured, “we are so good together. I couldn’t ask for a better wife.”
Her smile went deep as she buried her head into the crevice between his shoulder and chest. She could not have been any happier. Nick had called her love. Once tonight he had even said my love, which was infinitely better—considering the intimacy they had just shared. He was pleased with her. She truly believed he did not resent that she’d robbed his treasured bachelorhood.
And she truly hoped they could make love several times a night.
“Are you all right?” he asked a moment later, his voice gentle as he dropped soft kisses into her hair.
“I think so.”
He went suddenly stiff. “What’s the matter?” he asked in a concerned voice.
“I’ve heard that when a woman loses her chastity, there is blood?”
He drew in a deep breath. “There is.”
“Is that why I . . . experienced discomfort? Is it only for the first time?”
He held her tightly. “I’m not an authority on women’s virginity—you’re my first virgin—but I believe you may experience soreness for a week or so—until your . . . anatomy gets used to my invasion.”
“Will you answer me truthfully if I ask you a personal question?”
He did not answer for a moment. “Yes,” he finally said.
“Do the women you bed usually experience pain?”
“Never,” he said with authority. Then he sighed and tenderly stroked her back, her arms, her buttocks. “If you’d like, I won’t . . . enter you again until the soreness goes away.”
That’s not at all what she liked. She stiffened. “Is that what you wish?”
“You want the truth?”
She held her breath. “Yes.”
“ No.”
“I’m very glad to hear that for I’d like to do it all over again.”
He gave a husky chuckle. “There’s another thing you need to know about making love, my dear. Men are rather different from women. After a man has spilled his seed his size diminishes and he experiences a profound sense of exhaustion.”
She rather thought this lovemaking would be more pleasant if a man’s size was diminished! “Can a man not make love when he’s not so ‘expanded’?” she asked.
“He cannot!” he said with a laugh. “He needs to be quite hard in order to . . . slide in properly.” He pushed her over on her back and settled his lips on hers for a heated kiss. “However, Mrs. Birmingham, just speaking about being rigid seems to have made me hard.”
“Then we can do it again?”
“And again and again and again if you continue to have such an effect on me,” he growled as he covered her body with his.
Chapter 7
The sudden burst of light awakened her the next morning. For several seconds she lay there, her eyes closed, suffused with a deep sense of well-being, despite the soreness in a place whose existence had been unknown to her before yesterday. Gradually, she came fully awake and recognized her surroundings: her husband’s bedchamber. With glowing pride, she watched Nick—fully dressed and freshly shaven—move along a bank of tall windows, drawing open the blue silk draperies that had cloaked the room in darkness.
When he turned to face her, a crooked grin lifting one corner of his sensuous mouth, her heart leaped.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Birmingham. I’ve brought you breakfast,” he said as he went to the table, collected the silver tea tray, and brought it to her.
She sat up and pulled the sheets to cover her nakedness. “Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Birmingham.” She took the steaming cup of hot chocolate he offered. “You look so clean and well groomed, and I’m such a mess.”
He leaned over to kiss her forehead, then sat on the bed beside her. “You’ve never looked lovelier. I take it you slept well.”
“Like the dead. At least . . . after . . .”
“After a night of wildly passionate lovemaking.” His voice was a satisfied growl.
She wondered if all married people indulged in the activities she and Nick had last night. How did married people ever get any sleep?
A flicker of embarrassment leaped over her. She and Nick had behaved so very brazenly throughout the night. There was not an inch of her body that his mouth had not touched. Only his deep satisfaction had erased her embarrassment. Her brothers had told her that men were possessed of a strong need for sexual gratification. Her complete compliance in that area had definitely pleased her husband.
But the memory that Diane Foley had often assuaged Nick’s needs definitely displeased Fiona.
“I have a Christmas gift for you,” he said, withdrawing a small, red leather and gilt book from his pocket and handing it to her. “I had no time to buy anything so I decided to give you something that is very special to me. It’s William Blake’s poems. You’ll find the pages much dog-eared. I only recently had the book rebound.”
Her mouth dropped open. It was really extraordinary. Songs of Innocence was her favorite book. Tears gathered in her eyes.
His brows lowered. “What’s the matter, love? Do you not like it?”
“Oh, Nick, I adore it—so much so that I gave away my only copy to Randy as a parting gift when he left the country.” She clutched the book to her breast. “You could not have given me anything I would value more.” She carefully thumbed through the pages, then gazed up into his face. “I feel wretched I have no gift for you.”
He burst out laughing. “You’ve given my everything this day. No Christmas could be more wonderful.” He lifted her left hand and kissed it. “By the way, the gold band is only temporary. I plan to have a more suitable wedding ring made for you. Do you like emeralds?”
She scowled. “A gold band perfectly suits me. I infinitely prefer something that has been passed down in your family over something purchased.”
He fingered the golden ring. “You won’t be embarrassed over its plainness?”
“Of course not!” Her gaze scanned her fully dressed husband, and color came to her cheeks as the grip on the sheets she held to her breast tightened. “How long have you been awake?”
He shrugged. “About an hour.”
“What time is it?”
“Noon.” His entire demeanor toward her
had changed. His eyes positively glowed when he looked at her. His voice was like a tender caress. She suddenly came to understand how women throughout history—women like Cleopatra—had been able to wield such power over men. They did it with their bodies. With their bodies, they captured hearts. Her heartbeat drummed.
She could scarcely believe the day was half over. “Will we go to see your mother today?”
“Later. For Christmas dinner. Do you ride?”
A smile curved her mouth. “I adore riding.”
“Then I’m looking forward to riding with you. It will be a good way for you to see all of your new country home.”
“Our country home,” she teased. She decided she liked being a married woman. She liked sharing her life with someone else. And she especially liked sharing her body with that someone else.
His eyes glittering, a devilish smile on his face, he tugged at the sheet that covered her breasts. She concentrated on watching him when she really wanted to gaze at her uncovered breasts, wishing they were bigger. Their small size did not seem to repel her husband, who eased his head down and drew a nipple into his mouth. “Very nice,” he murmured. She remembered what he had told her about the nipples turning rigid, and she stole a peek. They had indeed hardened.
She wondered if he had hardened, too. Her gaze flicked to his crotch, and she could not suppress her smile. His crotch resembled a tent. A tent with a pole in the middle.
A bizarre idea suddenly popped into her head. “Dearest?” she asked. It was the first time she had used such an endearment, but it seemed appropriate after what had occurred between them the night before.
He had switched to her other breast. “Uh huh?”
“Can people make love in the daytime?”
He burst into laughter as he straightened up, then gave her a solemn look. “They most certainly can, and we most definitely will. But not now. We’ve only a few more hours of daylight, and there’s much I wish to show you.”
She decided this man she had married must be possessed of a great deal of self-discipline. Which she found rather admirable.
No stable in all of England could exceed her husband’s in grandeur or in horseflesh. “Oh my!” she said when they began to stroll the center aisle of the long, two-story building, where stalls on either side were filled with fine Arabians. “I don’t remember Lord Hartley having such a fine stable.”
“Actually, his stable’s been torn down. I built this one three years ago.”
“Not only is the facility first rate,” she said with awe, “but the horses! How can a man who spends so much time in The City have amassed such wonderful creatures?”
“It’s my one weakness.”
She fleetingly thought he might have another weakness. A weakness for women. Women like Diane Foley. “You go to Newmarket?”
“Rarely,” he said. “I don’t fancy wagering. I enjoy breeding—and collecting the cups my horses win. If there’s an especially big meet—like the One Thousand Guinea Classic or the Derby at Epson—I’ll go to a race meeting for the joy of seeing one of my horses win and collecting the prize money.”
She thought all men wagered. Especially men with large pockets, men like her husband. But she was coming to realize this man she had married was not like the men of her class, though one not familiar with his background would never believe Nick had not been born to the same privilege she had been born to. His cultured voice, his remarkable taste in clothing and houses and carriages and horseflesh, bespoke a man of aristocratic origins. The differences were subtle. Nick did not like being idle. Nick did not wager. Trevor had even told her Nick was not enamored of strong drink.
Her heart clenched. He was enamored of actresses. Like the men of her class.
“Which is your horse?” she asked.
A smile came over his handsome face. “Midnight.” He strolled two more stalls and directed his attention at a magnificent black horse.
“He’s a beauty,” she said.
“He’s descended from the Gondolphin Barb.”
She moved closer to stroke the animal’s nuzzle. “I’m impressed.”
“Which one would you like?”
“What a wonderful Christmas!” she squealed, then she began to stroll up and down the length of the mews. The decision was not easy, given that they were all such fine beasts. But she came to stand before a stall holding a chestnut mare with white markings. “This little filly speaks to me. What’s her name?”
“Feel free to name her. She’s yours.”
Fiona threw her arms around her husband’s neck and kissed his cheek, then she stood back and stared at the mare’s sleek lines. “I believe I should like to call her Missus B.”
Her husband came to stand beside her, draping an arm around her as his head dipped to hers and she felt the brush of his lips on her cheek. “That pleases me, Fiona,” he said in a husky voice.
The haystack seemed suddenly appealing. This man’s touch had the most devastating effect upon her.
“I’ll have Jeremiah saddle her,” he said.
A few minutes later they were galloping across the gently sloping meadows left colorless from winter’s cold. It was obvious to Fiona that her husband had the best riding instructors, too. She gave up a silent prayer of thanks to the father who had molded this man who was now her husband.
They rode from one end of his property to the other, very few words exchanged. Though the sun was high in the sky, it was an extremely cold, breezy day. Eventually they turned onto a fairly well-traveled road and slowed to a canter.
He eyed her, his gaze lazily skimming over the navy blue velvet of her riding habit. “I like you in that color,” he said. “It makes your eyes a deep blue.”
“You’re remarkably observant for a man.”
“There’s much to appreciate when a man looks at you, Fiona.”
That fluttering he always seemed to elicit returned. “Thank you, Nick.”
A moment later he asked, “Is the cold uncomfortable for you?”
“For one accustomed to Yorkshire winters, I assure you the weather in Kent’s most tolerable.”
After they rode over a gentle hill, she slowed and asked, “Will Verity be at your mother’s tonight?”
“Yes, and my brothers too. I’m hoping you and Verity will have some commonality.”
Not nearly as strongly as she hoped. A moment later she asked, “Your mother knows about our marriage?”
“I dispatched a letter to her at the same time I put the notice in the Times. The afternoon before our marriage.”
She had been so busy and so rattled the morning of her wedding she had not read the newspaper. It never occurred to her that Nick would have the presence of mind to insert the notice in the Times. She wondered what it said. But she was even more curious to learn what he had told his mother. “Did you tell your mother I asked you to marry me?”
His eyes narrowed. “Of course not! I wouldn’t tell anyone that.” He paused a moment. “Except for Adam. And the only reason I told him was because I saw him directly after I had turned down your generous offer. I was agitated, and he knew it.”
Had his brother persuaded him to marry her? Her stomach sank. Would a marriage between the house of Birmingham and the Viscount Agar’s family be beneficial to the family businesses? Was she merely a business acquisition? She drew in a breath. “Then your brother urged you to marry me?”
Nick slowed beside a copse of birch trees and gave her a solemn look. “I’m the eldest, Fiona. My brother doesn’t tell me what to do. He merely asked if I found you attractive.” His dark eyes swept over her. “Which I do. Very much. As I thought about it, I realized I would never find a woman possessed of more qualities I seek in a wife than you.” He lowered his voice almost to a growl. “And that was before I knew of your passionate nature, my sweet.”
Relief washed over her.
Great Acres was not furnished as tastefully as Camden Hall, but it was a very grand place surrounded by a lush park and bu
ilt in a stately Tudor style.
As the butler escorted her and Nick to the drawing room, Fiona’s gaze traveled over the Christmas garlands strewn over every window and doorway.
“I see my sister’s shown no restraint in her Christmas decorations,” Nick said with a chuckle. “ ’Tis a miracle if there’s a single holly bush that was spared her ax.”
Fiona’s eyes suddenly watered as a powerful rush of emotions surged through her. Like Verity, Fiona had always adored gathering Christmas greenery to decorate Windmere Abbey. When she’d had a family to enjoy her efforts. How she envied Miss Birmingham, whose mother was still alive, whose three brothers would spend the holiday with her. Fiona would give all that she possessed to see Randy again. Her chest tightened. She had given all that she possessed in the hopes of once again seeing her eldest brother. How she missed him! How she missed Mama and Papa and Windmere Abbey, and how she longed for those happy Christmases spent with her own family.
Despite Nick’s comforting arm looping around her, Fiona grew nervous as the door swept open and she got a glimpse of the woman she presumed to be Nick’s mother, though the two looked nothing alike. Until his mother looked up. And glared. There was an unmistakable resemblance around the prominent cheekbones.
Nick kept one arm around Fiona as they entered the room. “Mother, I should like to present you to my wife. Lady Fiona, my mother, Dolina Birmingham.”
Mrs. Birmingham was close to sixty. Fiona could not say what color the woman’s hair was because it was stuffed beneath a mobcap, but she immediately saw a resemblance between Mrs. Birmingham and her youngest son. Both had eyes the same shade of green, and she was also stocky like William. But unlike her sons, Dolina Birmingham had no fashion sense. Her kelly green dress, though of a high-quality fabric, was a decade out of date and exceedingly tight on her—which was not flattering, given the woman’s girth. The band around the sleeve of her dress squeezed her flabby arms, and her bosom was positively indecent for the amount of it which was not concealed beneath the low neckline.