Something Wonderful

by Judith McNaught

  All she knew was that she was bursting with love, and that she wanted—needed—to make him feel all the wondrous pleasure he was making her feel. And when Jordan slowly lowered his sensual lips to hers and whispered, “Kiss me, darling,” it was all the invitation Alexandra needed.

  Driven by pure instinct and the belief that what felt wonderful to her would surely feel wonderful to him also, Alexandra unknowingly turned the full force of his seductive skill on him. She kissed him with unrestrained ardor, curving her hand around his nape, kissing him exactly as he had kissed her, her tongue sliding along the crease between his lips, urging them to part and then driving inside in a kiss that made him gasp against her mouth.

  The pressure of her mouth urged him back against the pillows as Alexandra leaned up on an elbow and then followed him down, brushing sweet, arousing kisses across his temple, eyes, and cheek while her hand slid downward to the mat of dark hair on his chest. She splayed her fingers wide, her fingertips sliding back and forth, grazing his nipples as she trailed her lips across his cheek and daringly traced the folds of his ear with her tongue. Beneath her palm, she felt the wild increase in the rapid pounding of his heart; encouraged, she slid her lips downward, following the path her hand had taken, raining kisses over the rippling muscles of his powerful chest until she finally reached his nipple. When she took it in her mouth, she heard the rasp of his sharply indrawn breath and felt his muscles leap reflexively.

  His skin was like rough satin and Alexandra reveled in the taste and texture of it, loving the way his hands plunged into her hair as she continued to kiss and tease him with her mouth. But when she moved downward, sliding her lips along the hollow planes of his stomach, Jordan made a sound that was part laugh and part groan and abruptly hauled her upward, rolling her onto her back, leaning over her.

  With passion raging through every pore of his body, Jordan had no specific idea how he had become the seduced, rather than the seducer. All he knew was that the enchanting girl he had taken to bed had suddenly become a gloriously exciting woman who was deliberately driving him half mad with desire.

  Hungrily, he opened her mouth with his own while his hand glided down her hips and thighs, then shifted, covering the curly triangle between her legs. She stiffened at his intimate touch and clamped her legs together, wildly shaking her head.

  With an effort that nearly sapped his strength, Jordan made his hand still and slowly lifted his head, gazing down at her. “Don’t be afraid of me, darling,” he said in a throbbing whisper, as his hand began to move, gently but relentlessly caressing her most sensitive place, his fingers probing her moist warmth, seeking entrance. “Trust me.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, the rigidity went out of her limbs and Alexandra’s thighs parted sweetly. From the moment he had begun, Jordan had expected, known, she would struggle and fight him when his caresses became this intimate. Instead, she was giving herself to him without reservation, holding nothing back, fighting down her own fears and trusting him not to harm her.

  The surge of tenderness he felt for the innocent temptress with the melting eyes at that moment was almost more than he could contain. He stared down at her, feeling humbled by her sweet, selfless giving, and she closed her eyes, burying her heated face against his chest while his fingers toyed with her, probing gently to prepare her for him, her hands clasping the muscles of his upper arms.

  With a combination of blazing desire and genuine dread at the knowledge he was going to have to hurt her, Jordan shifted on top of her. Bracing his weight on his forearms, he cradled her face between his hands, his throbbing shaft poised at the entrance to her body. “Alex,” he said in an aching voice that sounded strangely shattered to his own ears.

  Her long eyelashes fluttered open, and he could tell she already knew.

  Her breath was coming in frightened, shallow little pants, but instead of closing her eyes, she kept them riveted to his as if seeking reassurance and comfort from the very man who was about to hurt her. Moving his hips slowly, Jordan penetrated her a fraction with each stroke, pushing slightly deeper into her tight warmth until he found the barrier that blocked further entrance, but no amount of gentle, normal pressure would break it.

  His last hope that this would be painless and easy died in his breast. Lifting her hips to receive him, he withdrew almost all the way and covered her trembling lips with his own. “I’m sorry, darling,” he whispered hoarsely against her mouth. Holding her imprisoned, he drove swiftly into her. Her body arched and her soft cry of pain slashed across his heart, but she never once tried to push him away. Instead she let him hold her in his arms, whispering soothing endearments to her.

  Swallowing convulsively, Alexandra opened her tear-brightened eyes, amazed and relieved as the brief pain began to subside. Her husband’s handsome face was dark with passion and harsh with regret, and she put her arms around him. “It wasn’t as bad as that,” she whispered.

  The fact that she was trying to console him was more than Jordan could withstand. The cynicism and cold reserve that had surrounded him like an impenetrable wall for most of his twenty-seven years began to disintegrate completely, washed away in a tidal wave of selfless passion that raged through every pore of his body. With painstaking slowness, Jordan began to move within her, plunging gently, then retreating to plunge again, watching her lovely flushed face, as she began instinctively to move with him.

  With her nails biting into the bunched muscles of his back, Alexandra strained toward him in trembling need, pressing herself willingly to the demanding, rhythmic thrusts of his hard body, while within her an uncontrollable inner excitement began to build, jarring her body” with quick, piercing stabs of desire.

  “Don’t fight it, darling,” Jordan whispered thickly, his shoulders and arms taut with the strain of holding back, his chest heaving with the force of each labored breath. Steadily, he began to increase the tempo of his driving, rhythmic strokes. “Let it happen.”

  Ecstasy exploded in Alexandra, spilling through her veins while spasms racked her body, making her cry out. The moment she did, Jordan tightened his arms around her and drove fiercely into her. His body erupted like a volcano, pouring his seed into her welcoming warmth with a force that made his entire body jerk again and again. Convulsions of pleasure were still racking him as he gently lifted his weight from her and moved onto his side, taking Alexandra with him, his body still joined with hers.

  Alexandra surfaced slowly from the sweet, hot oblivion to which he had sent her, eventually becoming aware of where she was. As she lay in his protective embrace, her head nestled beneath his chin, she did not know it was possible to feel so loved. Even now, she could still feel the warmth of his intimate caresses and wildly exciting kisses.

  Almost from the moment he had joined her in bed, she had realized instinctively that her husband had desired and needed her, but she hadn’t quite understood what it was he was seeking from her. Now she knew. He had wanted that explosion of pure pleasure—and he had wanted her to feel it, too. Pride and joy seeped through her at the knowledge that she had been able to give him that. She had been able to make his powerful body tremble as he had made hers tremble, she had made him gasp with delight.

  It did not occur to her to feel embarrassment over the wanton way she had returned his passion. Love meant giving everything and holding nothing back, as her grandfather had said. It meant entrusting your happiness to another, and, in return taking full responsibility for that person’s happiness. She had done both tonight.

  Her mind drifted to babies. She had never understood why couples sometimes got babies they didn’t seem to want. No doubt they got them because they couldn’t help going to bed and doing this glorious thing Jordan called “making love.”

  Jordan moved slightly, tipping his head down to tenderly gaze at his wife. In the candle glow, the purity of her face was striking. With her unbelievably long eyelashes resting like curly fans against her smooth, high cheeks, she looked fragile and innocent and
incredibly pretty. He had intended to introduce her to passion; instead she had taught him selfless, uninhibited giving. She was innocence and ardor; devoid of guile; trusting and candid and sweet. A natural temptress.

  A faint smile curved his lips as he finally recognized the fact that she had adroitly used his own technique at lovemaking to make love to him, but she had added something to it—something elusive and profoundly touching. Something that made him feel both proud and strangely humble; possessive and yet unworthy. And suddenly, very uneasy.

  Wondering if she was already asleep, he touched his lips to her forehead and whispered her name, then he raised his hand, intending to brush her tousled curls off her forehead.

  Her eyes opened, and what he saw in their glowing blue depths stilled his hand and made it tremble—he saw the same thing that had made his body tremble when she kissed and touched him:

  All the love in the universe was shining in her eyes.

  “Oh my God,” he whispered hoarsely.

  * * *

  Hours later when he had made love to her for the second time, Jordan held her cradled in his arms, staring fixedly at the dying candles on the mantel, unable to banish the possessive jealousy he felt stirring to life within him. “Alexandra,” he said more gruffly than he intended, “never believe a man who says ‘trust me’—especially if you don’t happen to have any clothes on at the time.”

  She opened her eyes and her smile was filled with amusement. “How many men do you expect to be talking to me while I have no clothes on, my lord?”

  “None,” he said sternly. “I was merely joking about that part.” Unable to tell her bluntly not to trust him or any other man, Jordan said evasively, “It’s foolish to trust people too much. You’ll be hurt if you do.”

  Her smile sobered. “I would be hurting myself if I didn’t. Don’t you trust people?”

  “Not very many and not completely.”

  Alexandra lifted her hand and brushed her fingertip against his warm, sensual lips. “If you don’t trust,” she told him with that combination of wisdom and naiveté that Jordan found so disarming, “you’ll never be disappointed by someone. But you will also cheat yourself of the chance to ever be completely happy.” Unable to stop touching him, Alexandra traced the curve of his hard jaw, unaware of the desire kindling in his eyes and sparking to life within her. “You are beautiful and gentle and wise and strong,” she whispered, watching his eyes darken as her hand drifted down his throat to his chest “But you need to learn to trust people, especially me. Without complete trust, love can’t survive, and I love y—”

  Jordan captured her lips in a devouring kiss that silenced her words and sent her spinning off into a warm sweet world, where nothing existed except the wild beauty of his lovemaking.

  Chapter Eleven

  THEY MADE A brief stop in London early the next evening, and while Jordan attended to some sort of business he had there, their coachman gave Alexandra a two-hour tour of what she was convinced must be the most exciting city in the world.

  The sun was sinking into the sea on the horizon when they arrived at their ship the following day. Alexandra drank in the sights and sounds of the seaport with greedy delight, watching stevedores walking up and down planks with huge crates slung effortlessly over their shoulders, while giant cranes lifted cargo nets off the docks and lowered them onto the vessels. Mighty warships with towering masts were being loaded with provisions and made ready to join their sister ships in the blockade of the American colonies, or to continue the battle with the French on the sea. Burly seamen strolled down the docks with their arms around women whose faces were rouged and whose gowns made Alexandra’s peignoirs seem demure.

  The captain of the Fair Winds greeted them personally as they came on board and invited them to join him for “a simple supper” in his cabin. The “simple” meal consisted of fourteen courses, each served with a different wine, and a great deal of animated conversation about the wars Britain was fighting with the French and Americans. In Morsham, when Alexandra had read about bloody land battles with Napoleon’s forces and the clashes taking place on the sea, it had all seemed so far away and unreal. Now, with warships lying at anchor all around her, war was a tangible, frightening thing.

  By the time Jordan escorted her down to their cabin, however, she had drunk so much wine at the captain’s urging that she was feeling a little giddy and extremely sleepy. Jordan’s trunks had been put in their cabin, and Alexandra smiled with rosy contentment, wondering if he intended to make love to her tonight. He’d seemed a little distant after he finally returned from his meeting in London last night, and he hadn’t made love to her when they finally stopped in an inn south of the city. He had kissed her goodnight, though, and held her in his arms until she slept.

  “Shall I play lady’s maid?” Jordan asked. Without waiting for her to answer, he turned her around and began unfastening the long row of rose-silk-covered buttons down her back.

  “Is this boat swaying?” Alexandra asked, grabbing for the small oaken table beside her.

  Jordan’s chuckle was rich and deep. “This is a ship, not a ‘boat’ and you are doing the swaying my sweet—the result, I fear, of a shocking overindulgence in wine at supper.”

  “The captain was so determined I try each one,” she protested. “He’s very nice,” she added, rather pleased with the world in general

  “You won’t think so when you wake up in the morning,” Jordan teased.

  He obligingly turned his back while she changed, then he tucked her into their bed, drawing up the sheets to her chin.

  “My lord,” she asked, “aren’t you coming to bed?” Alexandra wished devoutly that she wasn’t required to address him always as “your grace” or “my lord,” but the dowager duchess had lectured her very sternly that she must address him thus, unless and until her husband gave her permission to do otherwise. Which he hadn’t.

  “I’m going up on deck for a little while to get some air,” he said, stopping to take his pistol out of his other jacket and tuck it in the waistband of his dark-blue trousers.

  Alexandra was fast asleep before Jordan had finished walking down the narrow passageway toward the steps that led to the upper deck.

  At the railing, Jordan reached into his pocket and took out one of the slender cheroots he usually enjoyed after supper. Cupping his hands around the tip, he lit it, then he stood looking out across the Channel, contemplating the highly complex problem of Alexandra. After years of associating with sophisticated, mercenary, shallow women—and of condemning the entire sex on the basis of those women— he had married a girl who was artless, candid, intelligent, and generous.

  And he didn’t know what to do with her.

  Alexandra had some foolish, quixotic notion that he was noble and gentle and “beautiful.” When, as he well knew, he was jaded, disillusioned, and morally corrupt. In his brief life, he’d already killed too many men to count and bedded more women than he could possibly recall.

  Alexandra believed in openness, trust, and love—and she fully intended to try to make him participate in her beliefs. He wanted nothing to do with openness, trust, or love.

  She was a gentle dreamer, he was a hard realist.

  She was, in fact, such a dreamer that she actually believed “something wonderful” was going to happen—which wasn’t that surprising, since she also believed wet dirt in the springtime smelled like perfume . . .

  Alexandra wanted to make him see the world as she saw it—fresh and alive and unspoiled, but it was too late for that. All he could do was to try to keep the world that way for her for as long as possible. But he would not share her imaginary world with her. He didn’t want to. He didn’t belong there. At Devon she would be safe from the corrosive effects of Society, safe from the dissipations and brittle sophistication of his world—the world where he was comfortable—where he was not expected to feel things like love; where he wasn’t expected to trust, or to reveal his inner thoughts and feelings . . .<
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  He dreaded the hurt he knew he’d see on her face when she realized he did not intend to stay in Devon with her, but that he would not do. Could not do.

  In front of him, the Channel stretched for as far as he could see, its inky surface swept by a giant yellow moonbeam. Irritably, Jordan flicked his cheroot over the side, then he remembered it was his only one. He’d left the flat gold case with the others in it at Elise’s house in London the night before last.

  Restless from days of enforced confinement in the coach and from trying unsuccessfully to find a better solution to the problem of Alexandra, he turned from the rail and glanced along the wharf, where light spilled out from taverns and inebriated sailors staggered along, their arms flung over the shoulders of the whores who walked at their sides.

  Less than four yards away, two men darted swiftly into the shadows of the ship and crouched down among the coiled ropes out of his sight.

  Hoping to buy a few cigars in the tavern across the wharf, Jordan strolled across the deck and headed for the gangplank. Two shadows emerged from the ropes and followed him, hanging back, watching.

  Jordan was aware that the wharf was a dangerous place to be at night, particularly with impressment gangs ranging about, pouncing upon the unwary and loading their unconscious victims onto His Majesty’s warships, where they woke up to discover they had the “honor” of becoming seamen for months or years—until such time as the ship returned to port. On the other hand, Jordan was armed, all he saw on the wharf were drunken seamen, and, after surviving years of bloody battles all over Spain, he saw little to fear from the few yards of wharf that separated him from the tavern.

  “Stay back, yer fool—let ’im get to th’ wharf,” one of the shadows whispered to the other as they moved silently down the gangplank in Jordan’s wake.