It would be futile. As futile as the tide resisting the draw of the moon. There was no help for it; the end was inevitable. She was Ian’s wife. If she was completely honest, he’d stirred something in her since the first moment she’d seen him at the ball.
There was no sin in this, no shame, except the degradation she felt at having been called a strumpet by her new husband.
That hurt intolerably. The stinging words coiled around her heart, opening a deep, painful wound that wouldn’t soon heal. A flush of humiliation stole over her. She’d no doubt she was as pink as the rose petals that had recently lain upon these same sheets.
Hearing a slight rustle, she popped her eyes open, then snapped them shut again. Another blush warmed her entire body. He’d untied his banyan, letting it slip to the floor. Faith, she was no authority on the male form, but she was certain, the lean, well-muscled, naked man standing beside the bed was near perfection, except for . . . it.
The large member proudly protruding from his crisp dark loin hairs was what would join with her. She knew it beyond a doubt.
Oh dear and good God.
She opened her eyes a slit, peeping between her eyelashes. Surely his great size was an abnormality. She’d didn’t want to stare at his disfigurement, but Lord Almighty—
He will tear me asunder.
The breath slowly hissed from between Ian’s clenched teeth. He stood transfixed, unable to tear his gaze from the beauty of Vangie’s form. If eternity stood still, he’d not have time enough, nor have words eloquent enough, to describe what God had fashioned in such wondrous perfection. Was there anything as marvelous, as splendidly exquisite as the female body?
The curtain of her hair spilled across her sloping ivory shoulders to gently rounded hips. The blushing tips of her firm, round breasts peeked between the silky midnight strands. Her eyes were squeezed shut. She tried to shield the tempting curly triangle cradled between silky thighs, tapering to delicate calves, well-turned ankles, and finally, to her shapely feet.
His gaze roamed the turn of her derrière, her narrow waist and flat stomach, before traveling back and lingering on the luscious mounds flirting behind her hair. Unable to help himself, he parted the sheltering locks, sucking in another great gulp of air, as her perfect breasts were exposed. He trailed a finger across one satiny breast, watching in fascinated wonder as the rosy nipple puckered.
Vangie shivered, though whether from trepidation or passion, Ian couldn’t be certain. Her eyes opened then, resignation and the merest trace of cautious curiosity in their beautiful depths. She would experience pleasure with him like she had with no other, he vowed silently. He’d brand her as his for all time. Sweeping his gaze the length of his wife, an unfamiliar, fierce possessiveness seized his vitals.
She was his. No others—ever again.
Easing onto the bed, he drew her into his arms, letting her become accustomed to his touch. “Relax, sweeting,” he urged, his voice a husky rasp.
He stroked her smooth skin with skilled fingers. A smile of smug satisfaction curved his mouth as he heard her sigh and felt her relax against him. “That’s it, love. Just enjoy this.”
He nibbled her neck and shoulders, his hands cupping and soothing a sensuous path over her full curves. Watching Vangie’s face, he trailed a finger across her cheek, then over her slender neck to the fullness of one breast. She arched into his hand. Though timid, she was enjoying his touch. Male pride surged through him. Leaning over her, he kissed her, running his tongue along the sweet seam of her lips.
She sighed again, unconsciously turning her head to allow him better access to her honeyed mouth. Ian wasted no time. He angled his head and deepened the kiss, until at his insistence her mouth opened to receive his tongue. He plunged into her inviting depths, reveling in her hesitant response.
Her tongue tentatively dueled with his.
Had no man taken the time to introduce her to the art of kissing? A growl rumbled deep in his chest. Selfish bastards.
He’d remedy that tonight.
What in the world was Ian doing to her? Vangie felt as if the world were tilting. The oddest sensations were flitting about in her most secret place. She wanted to push her aching breasts into his rough hand. When his tongue nudged its way inside her mouth, she thought she’d died and gone to heaven so exquisite was the sensation.
His hands caressing her body ignited desire she’d not known she possessed. She felt alive in a sensuous, urgent way she didn’t understand. His experienced hands demanded a response she was only too eager to give.
Turning to her side, she slipped an arm round Ian’s torso, wanting him closer, rejoicing in the bunching of his muscles at her inexperienced touch. She ran her hands across his firm flesh, delighting in the ridges beneath her tentative, exploring fingers. Nuzzling her nose into his neck, she inhaled his masculine scent.
Ian’s ministrations became bolder. He lowered his head, teasing one nipple, encircling it with his tongue. Groaning, Vangie arched into him, hungry for his touch. The sensation of his lips and tongue on her breast created a frenzy of pulsating need only he could satisfy.
“More. . .” she groaned.
He chuckled, seemingly happy to oblige her. He sucked the swollen flesh deep into his hot mouth. Gripping his arms, she moaned her pleasure aloud, too far gone to be shocked at the noises she was making. Her cries of pleasure seemed to fuel his desire.
Angling himself so he lay across her, his elbows bearing his weight, Ian sought her mouth once more. His fingers played across her ripe, ravenous body. She wriggled her hips beneath him, unmindfully asking him to complete the act. He groaned, deep and ragged, low in his throat. The primitive sound quickened her pulse. She opened her eyes.
He rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
“Yes, oh, yes, Ian.”
A smile of pure male dominance crept across Ian’s angular face. She shifted restlessly beneath him. Her bent knee brushed his engorged manhood, and he gasped. Gritting his teeth, he buried his face against her shoulder.
He lifted his head, and she was ensnared by his molten, passion-filled eyes. Laughing in self-depreciation, he apologized. “I’m afraid I’ve been without a woman far too long to take this as slowly as I intended, sweeting. You’re such a temptress, I can’t wait any longer. I’ll make it up to you next time, I swear.”
He captured her mouth in a plundering kiss. Without warning, he cupped her buttocks, parted her legs, and surged into her with one fierce thrust.
A cry caught in Vangie’s throat. She went rigid beneath him, wrenching her mouth from his. Dear God. He was buried deep within in her. It was excruciating. Her insides were ablaze. He was immense, his length unbearable. He’d torn something inside her. She’d felt it give way.
Scrunching her face against the pain, she fisted her hands in the sheets. Where was the pleasure Aunt Adélaid spoke of— that Ian promised? Hot, salty tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. Surely there was no pleasure in this. Vangie couldn’t stifle her soft sobs. It hurt. Hurt most awfully. He was killing her with his great deformity.
“Shh, love. I’m so sorry, sweeting.” Deep regret laced Ian’s voice.
She continued to weep softly as his body moved in a slow, steady rhythm within her. Gradually the pain ebbed, replaced by a vague, fluttery tingle.
A few moments later, he stiffened, a low guttural moan, issuing from the depths of his throat. He collapsed atop her, his heavy breathing rasping against her shoulder. Something sticky trickled onto her thighs. Mind numb, she lay unmoving beneath him. It had been dreadful.
Well, truth to tell, not all of it. The beginning was marvelous, but the end—
Vangie shuddered in remembered pain.
Ian withdrew from Vangie, then rolled to his side, facing her. With her back to him, she curled into a protec
tive ball, weeping softly. He traced a visual path from her shoulders to her thighs with his gaze, and then made the return journey. She’d a butterfly shaped birthmark on her right buttock. He reached to touch it. His hand hovered. He didn’t have the right to caress her—not now.
He’d made a grave miscalculation, not only as to her readiness to receive him, but as to her virtuousness.
She was, had been, an innocent.
God’s blood, what had he done?
When he’d felt her tight barrier tearing away, her strangled cry stabbed him to his core. Even then, he couldn’t stop. In her innocence, she’d taken him past the point of no return. Never in his life had Ian felt as helpless, or as much self-condemnation and self-loathing as he did at this moment.
Damnation.
He could still hear her pleas to wait to consummate their vows. She wasn’t being coy or denying him her bed. She was an innocent maid, frightened to bed a man she didn’t know. He felt her sobs, each shuddering sigh of her slender form, tearing into his gut like a knife twisting his vitals. He needed to console her every bit as much as she needed consoling.
Tenderly wrapping his arms around her, he tucked Vangie against his chest. She stiffened from head to toe but didn’t resist. Self-castigation thrummed through him. He’d treated her poorly. She’d not deserved the appalling things he’d said to her. Guilt shafted through him again.
She should have been introduced to passion with care and tenderness, not untamed lust while his cruel, hateful words echoed in her ears. He was a blind fool, a rogue of the worst sort. Yes, an arrogant, ignorant ass. He should be rejoicing over Vangie’s innocence. Instead, he felt like a man who had stolen someone’s sole, most treasured possession.
In truth, he had.
Running a soothing hand along her neck and arm, then over her delicate shoulder, Ian attempted to comfort her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know sweeting. I was told you—”
She went rigid against him.
Yielding to the scant degree of wisdom and good sense he yet possessed, he changed tactics. Brushing aside the tendrils of hair enveloping her shoulder, he kissed it. “Sleep now, love; all will be better in the morn.”
How, he didn’t know.
He nuzzled Vangie’s neck. “Forgive me.”
One thing was for certain, they’d leave for Somersfield first thing. He’d a need to sift fallacy from fact. Something was too smoky by far.
Chapter 13
Clamoring and banging woke Vangie. Through half-open eyes, she saw Emmy, no . . . it was Irma, attempting to light the coals in the grate. Vangie rolled onto her side. She rested her cheek on one hand, staring at the pillow beside hers. Though the indentation from Ian’s head remained, he was gone. She’d known he would be.
Her gaze shifted to the canopied top. A smile tempted the corners of her mouth. Garlands of pink roses hung from bedpost to bedpost. How could she have missed them last night?
Because she’d been otherwise engaged.
She’d heard his plea for forgiveness. She lay awake long after he’d fallen asleep, still cradling her in his arms. He’d not heard her whispered, “Te aves yertime mander tai te yertil tut o Del. I forgive you, and may God forgive you as I do.”
She was no weak-willed, timid milksop. Roma made the best of whatever lot was cast their way. They found happiness where they could. She sat upright, then scooted against the fluffy pillows, tugging the bedcovering higher to hide her nakedness. Yawning behind her hand, she froze.
The floor. Her gaze flew to the other side of the room. No trace of last night’s debacle remained. Had Ian seen to the mess to prevent gossip? From the corner of her eye, she searched the dressing table. The ill-fated brush and comb sat neatly atop it. Everything else had disappeared.
Irma handed Vangie her faded green robe, behaving like it was the most ordinary thing in the world to wake a naked woman in the morn. Mayhap it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. The notion settled sickeningly in Vangie’s belly.
“Your bath water is heating, my lady, and I’ve brought you breakfast.” Irma drew the linen and lace curtains open. Bright morning light spilled into the room.
Vangie blinked against the sudden brilliance.
“You’re to leave for Somersfield as soon as you’ve dressed, and I’ve packed your belongings.”
Vangie slipped off the bed, then wrapped the robe around her. She padded to the table where Irma had arranged her breakfast. Securing the garment’s tie at her waist, Vangie gingerly took a seat.
“Somersfield?” She took a sip of savory tea before nibbling a hot, buttered muffin.
“His lordship’s country estate in Northumberland.”
“Irma, mightn’t I bathe straightaway?”
“It’s Emma, my lady.”
Oh bother, of course it was.
Making for the rumpled bed, she sent Vangie a quizzical glance. “Before you eat, your ladyship?”
Was that so preposterous? Ducking her head, Vangie nodded, her hair swirling around her hips.
Please, don’t ask why.
Emma tossed back the bedding. “Of course, my—” She stopped short, unsuccessfully stifling a gasp. She spun around and scurried to the door.
“I’ll see to it at once.”
Teacup raised to her lips, Vangie’s gaze strayed to the bed. A large stain marred the surface. Her blood. Was that much blood normal? Ian was very . . . er . . . well-endowed, and his great size had torn her.
What would the servants think? For she was certain, even now, Emma was filling their ears.
Tea sloshed over the cup’s rim, and the china rattled noisily when Vangie clanked the cup onto the saucer with more force than intended. Standing, she moved to stare at the indisputable proof of her virginity. She’d not completely ceased bleeding to her immense mortification. Snatching the bedcoverings over the stain, a hot flush stole across her face.
A few minutes later a knock rattled the chamber door. “My lady, it’s Mrs. Parker and the staff with your bath water,” came the housekeeper’s muffled voice through the thick wood.
Vangie wrapped the robe tighter around her, clutching the neckline together with one hand. Moving to stand near the window, as far from the door as she could, she called, “Come in.”
Mrs. Parker and Emma, carrying an armful of towels, bustled into the room. They were followed by three under-footman, all toting large pails of water. The housekeeper directed the men to fill the copper tub in the corner, watching their every move with a practiced eye. Shooing the footman from the room the moment they’d completed their task, her gaze settled on the nearly untouched breakfast tray. “Have you finished with your meal, my lady?”
“Yes, thank you. I’m afraid I’ve not much of an appetite this morning.”
“Humph, it’s no wonder,” harrumphed the housekeeper, her gaze meeting Emma’s across the room.
They knew about her quarrel with Ian. Vangie wanted to melt into the floor. She clenched the comforting robe tighter.
Mrs. Parker took the towels from the maid. “Emma, please remove her ladyship’s tray, and retrieve the items I prepared below.”
Dipping a curtsy, the freckled-face maid hastily gathered the remnants of Vangie’s breakfast, then exited the room.
Standing beside the tub, Mrs. Parker removed a bottle from her starched apron pocket, then poured some liquid into the water. Slipping the bottle into the pocket from whence it came, she then bent over to swish the water with her hand. Drying her hand on the pristine apron she said, “My lady, your bath awaits.”
Smiling her appreciation, Vangie slipped off her robe, past the point of caring whether a complete stranger saw her unclothed. She settled into the warm, soothing water, sighing in pleasure. An aroma wafted past her nostrils. Roses, naturally. She strongly suspected Mrs. Parker
held the penchant for both the color pink and roses.
The housekeeper made herself busy, tidying the room, tsking and clucking the whole while. Her movements stopped when she too spied the tell-tale mark upon the bedding while removing the linens. Vangie’s face burned with mortification. Wasn’t it normal to bleed? Aunt Adélaid had mentioned it. The pitying look Mrs. Parker sent Vangie had her sinking deeper into the bath water.
Several minutes later, Emma returned with a basket.
All brusque business, the housekeeper assisted Vangie from the tub, then wrapped her in an enormous linen towel. She handed Vangie a jar. “It’s an ointment. It will aid in the healing.”
Vangie removed the lid, sniffing the aromatic mixture. It reminded her of one of Puri Daj’s herbal concoctions. Mrs. Parker lifted some soft cloths from the basket. She hesitated, casting a glance in Emma’s direction. The maid was busy tending the hearth. Lowering her voice, Mrs. Parker said, “To catch the remnants of your torn maidenhead.”
Vangie averted her eyes. This was really beyond the pale. Did all the servants know? She clutched the towel tighter, like an enormous shield against the embarrassment oozing from every pore. Truly grateful, yet equally humiliated, she thanked the housekeeper. “You’re most kind.”
Mrs. Parker tsked comfortingly. “You’ll be mended in a day or two.”
She passed Vangie her threadbare shift and mended stockings. Shooting another look toward Emma, Mrs. Parker muttered for Vangie’s ears alone, “So long as your rutting husband leaves you be.”
After taking his usual chair at the breakfast table, Ian opened the newspaper folded neatly before him. He stared blindly at the headline. His body was replete—his mind anything but.
He’d fallen asleep with Vangie nestled securely in his arms. Dawn’s glow woke him this morning, prompting him to edge from the bed. The coals burned low. They offered little in the way of warmth, yet emitted enough frail light, that he could appreciate the vision of his slumbering wife.
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