Chapter 4
Eleanor lay rigid in the bed, afraid of pain, afraid of embarrassment, afraid above all of what this business was going to do to him.
She had already developed respect for Nicholas Delaney.
She did not want to see him transformed into the gasping monster that haunted her nightmares, the monster who had apparently been that urbane and sensitive man, Lord Stainbridge.
She wished she had her impulsive decision to make again. She wondered whether he had manipulated her after all. Fine words and firelight were all very well, but…
He came back into her room. He was dressed in something very like a monk’s robe of woven cloth, striped brown and cream and green. It looked like the clothing of some strange African people and, she thought, it probably was.
She watched, wide-eyed, as he moved around the room extinguishing the candles and tending the fire.
Soon only its red glow illuminated the bedchamber.
Eleanor studied the purple shadows on the ceiling as he came toward the bed.
She felt it move as he slipped in beside her, felt the faint heat of his body merge with hers.
She could count her heartbeats. She wondered if he could hear them.
She sensed him roll on his side to face her. She did not, could not, turn her head to be sure. Silently, she begged him to be quick about it.
A hand settled softly on her ribs near her heart. She caught her breath and tensed. It slid away to her hand, where it rested, warm and firm.
“Relax, my dear.” His voice was as soft as velvet in the red dark.
“Remember, I promised not to force you. It will not be as bad as you fear.” His thumb made gentle circles on the pulse of her wrist. “Think, Eleanor. What is this business between men and women? There have been women who have risked a great deal, even life itself, for it. Love alone is not the explanation. Are they mad? Or is there pleasure there?”
Eleanor felt the movement of his thumb and his soft voice working on her like a soothing syrup. Almost unwillingly she relaxed and began to feel quite unlike herself.
“I suppose,” she said, her voice coming out huskily, “women must differ in this as in anything else. There are women with a passion for gambling, after all.”
“And for drink and for violence. You, of course, want nothing to do with any of those vices. As your husband, I approve most heartily.” There was nothing except lazy amusement to be heard in his voice. When, she wondered, did the transformation to monster begin?
He raised her hand to his warm mouth and kissed it. That was no different than the two previous times. Then he took her index finger into the moist warmth of his mouth and nibbled gently at it, his tongue playing over the tip. It was a most extraordinary sensation…
With a shudder, Eleanor pulled her hand away. He made no objection.
“Tell me, Eleanor. When was the last time anyone held you in their arms? When was the last time you hugged anyone with joy or grief?”
She wished desperately he would stop this and just do it. The silence, however, demanded an answer.
“Long ago,” she said, searching her memory. “My nanny. I had a puppy once. What does it matter?”
“Oh, it matters. It is one of the greatest joys. Come into my arms and hold me, Eleanor.”
That frightened her more than an attack. “I can’t,” she whispered.
Gently he persuaded her, coaxed her. If she did not exactly move of her own volition still she found herself gathered up and enveloped in tender warmth.
Her hand touched smooth flesh.
He was naked!
Automatically she pulled back.
“Terrible lack of foresight, I know,” he said soothingly, keeping firm arms around her. “I haven’t possessed a nightshirt for years. I venture to suggest, however, that your nightgown could do service for the two of us.”
It was true. The bunched folds prevented contact except beneath her clenched hand. All she felt of his body was soft firmness and warmth. His hands worked subtle magic on her back, and his voice gentled her mind.
Eleanor relaxed.
Of its own accord, it seemed, her hand eased open and curved around his ribs. Her head found a natural place in the hollow of his shoulder, and the rest of her body seemed to settle comfortably to the contours of his. Very faintly she could sense his heart, slow and steady beneath her ear.
It was the most wonderful sensation she could ever remember.
Then she started to cry. Because she tried to prevent them, the tears were harsh and painful. Embarrassed, she tried to move away from him, but his arms stayed gently firm.
“No Eleanor, cry. Cry, my dear, if you want to.” His hand moved up to rub at the back of her neck and she gave in and let the tears stream out.
After a while, drained, she found herself choking out details of her life. She told him of the rejection by her parents, of her anger, her rebellion, and her war with her brother. An ecstasy of painful release was followed by acute embarrassment.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. What am I doing? You must—”
He silenced her with a light kiss. “You can put all these things behind you now,” he said.
“They are over. But if you wish to speak of them again you may always talk to me. That’s what husbands are for.
And for holding onto for comfort. And to make sure that life will be better.
That is my wedding vow to you, Eleanor. Things will be better. Do you believe me?”
With a sniff, Eleanor nodded. She detached herself, and this time he made no effort to stop her. She sat up and fumbled on the bedside table for her handkerchief and blew her nose. Then she turned to look at him.
Her eyes had adjusted to the dim firelight and she could see him a little. Still no monster. Just a very kind man who had even, she noticed, rearranged the bedding to cover most of his body. He smiled a simple smile of friendship and a tentative bud began to unfurl within her.
It was hope.
She slid down shyly to seek again the comfort of his arms. Her emotions were in turmoil, but she recognized what he had said. Now she had someone, someone of her own.
“I cannot promise you total happiness, Eleanor,” he said, and there was a note of seriousness in his voice.
It was a warning, and she heeded it. But she had never expected total happiness.
She had not expected even a fragment of joy from this marriage and would be grateful for anything good that came of it.
“I will take care of you, though,” he added. “Trust me.”
Feeling safer than she had since she was a baby, she nodded.
“Then let us seal the pact in the usual manner.” His hand felt down her body to the hem of her nightgown. “No, relax, my dear. Relax. Don’t fight me.”
Despite all he had done Eleanor almost struggled, but at that moment his face was illumined by a sudden flare from a breaking coal. It was not a monster’s face. It was normal and alight with amusement. “This unbecoming garment I will allow you to retain, but not this pigtail.”
Eleanor had merely tied her long hair back for the night.
Now he tugged off the ribbon and ran his fingers through her hair.
He raised it high and let it drift down over both of them.
Bewildered, and with hair in her mouth, Eleanor let him do as he wished.
She wondered if loose hair was an essential part of the marriage act.
It was an inconvenient one. Last time it had taken an age to work out the knots.
Last time…
Panic choked her. She pushed against him.
Patiently his soft voice soothed her again and she relaxed. His hand stroked her hair from the crown of her head down over her shoulder, her breast, her side. “That,” he said reverently, “is beautiful.”
It was strangely wonderful to be thought beautiful.
He began to kiss her, little kisses in unlikely places such as on her eyelids and her earlobe. All the time his hands stroked and his voice murmured nonsense.
She had never thought humor a part of this business. Perhaps he was mad. If so, he was carrying her into madness too, for she found herself smiling and in danger of laughing outright.
“…a little neglected spot, I think,” he said. “My nurse always told me to remember the back of the neck. How many yards of material are there in this garment?”
His hands were underneath and she couldn’t help tensing again, but she tried to answer in a light tone. “About ten, I should think.”
“Good God,” he said, laughing. “If you have enough of them our fortune is made, my dear.”
His voice had become a little less controlled, but perhaps that was just laughter.
Then his mouth touched hers again. This time it was different.
His tongue played about her lips and his breath was hot and moist against hers.
Gently his lips insisted that hers soften and open to him.
She found strange pleasure in the intimacy.
In some way that surrender helped her not to tense as his hand parted her thighs and his hard body came between her legs.
A hand gently positioned her and he entered, smooth and slow.
There was no pain. Relief drained all the tension from Eleanor, leaving her lightheaded and floating. Just as she had felt as a child when she had expected a whipping and escaped.
He moved steadily in and out of her—an extraordinary sensation, but since it was painless she could accept it. After a moment, as it seemed she should, she moved with him. Rather, she thought, like rowing a boat.
His breathing became clearly audible, faster and faster. He moved faster and faster. Eleanor wondered whether his face had assumed that monster mask, but she shut her eyes and kept them tightly closed. She didn’t want to know.
With a series of gasping shudders he came to rest, his warm breath rippling against her neck. Instinctively she ran a soothing hand through his soft hair like a mother with a child, wondering what they were supposed to do now.
With a suddenness that startled her the Nicholas of before was back, his hand tracing the planes of her face.