Chapter Eleven
Not knowing what was expected of her in this instance, Evelyn allowed him to kiss her, to take her lips with his.
She’d never been kissed before. Not even when Rowland had pressed her, all those years ago.
And then her own lips parted, yielding to his gentle pressure and the heat rising low in her middle. She had read that the act of intercourse could be pleasurable, but kissing? Evelyn supposed she’d never given it much thought.
She liked it.
She liked the smell of him up close, the feel of his fingers at the back of her neck, the way she could somehow feel his entire body before her, even as he held himself back.
His other hand came to her shoulder, as if he read her thoughts, and eased her toward him, bringing them together in an embrace. How easily he enveloped her, the strength of his form hard against the plump softness of hers.
It was so warm, so heady, that she felt emboldened enough to attempt to kiss him back. Her overtures were awkward at first, but he slowed patiently, allowing her to take charge.
Before she knew it, she found herself reaching tentatively for him.
Mr. Hartley broke away. He looked at her hand resting lightly upon his shoulder, his eyes dark.
Evelyn’s breath caught. She started to pull back, but he caught her by the wrist.
“I like you like this,” he said, his voice barely loud enough to hear.
“Oh?” she breathed, wondering what exactly he meant by “this.” Forward? Flustered? Promiscuous?
But he didn’t answer, and instead drew her to his mouth, kissing the heel of her hand, her wrist. Leaving a trail of slow, sensual kisses up her arm.
Evelyn watched, mesmerized. His hair was falling in his face again, but she found she could not find fault with it this time… it seemed only natural. As did the lines of his shoulders, his wiry arms, his back. It suddenly struck her as incredibly erotic, this annoying MP on his knees before her. It was strange, to think of something so seemingly unremarkable in that way. But then again, Evelyn was not accustomed to regarding men in their underthings. Feeling confused by her thoughts, she shifted in her seat.
Alas, adjusting her position did nothing to curb this new, mounting sensation within her. In fact, something about the way her bottom shifted the linen of her nightgown and rubbed the heavy weft of the couch’s upholstery beneath it only made her even more aware of herself. A blush burned across her cheeks, spreading down to her chest.
He noticed, for something in his eyes changed; he looked at her with such smugness that she really ought to take offense. But she couldn’t, because right now she wanted nothing more than to be close to him.
This must be why young ladies always had a chaperone at their heels.
“Oh,” she repeated aloud, this time in response to her own realization, surprised to be arriving at this conclusion only now, at the spinsterish age of thirty.
Suddenly Mr. Hartley stood up, and he lifted her into his arms with surprising ease.
Evelyn gasped.
“Laid out on your bed, I believe, is what you expressed a preference for?”
Evelyn was taken aback. “It seems correct,” she offered blandly, doing her best to ignore the heavy beating in her chest.
“Well,” he said. And then his mouth was against her neck.
Oh. Pleasure emanated outward from the spot, electric upon her skin. She bit her lip, lest she do something humiliating, like moan.
But when he set her down, she very nearly cried out. How dare he do such a wonderful, thrilling… thing, and then so quickly withdraw his mouth! Evelyn bit her lip again. She would not beg. Even as she longed for him to repeat it.
He seemed inclined, however, to do naught but stand there, watching her. Waiting for something.
Propping herself up on her elbows, she held his gaze, defiant and proud. It may be her first experience of this nature, but she would not be cowed by his fierce gaze and finely wrought form.
Though she could not bear the lull any longer.
“Well?” She raised an eyebrow.
“You were going to bare yourself to me.”
“Oh.” She blushed. Removed from their little exchange on the couch, her words sounded lewd, rather than practical. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
She pushed herself up a little more, then reached down for the hem of her garment.
But Mr. Hartley darted forward and caught her hand. Her entire body thrummed, and she slowly lifted her gaze to meet his.
“Not just your skirts,” he rasped. “I want to see you. All of you.”
His eyes were so dark, his tone so serious, that Evelyn dared not argue. She swallowed and nodded.
After a moment’s thought of how to go about it, she turned away, then hitched the bottom of her nightgown up to her waist. She had the peculiar thought that undressing herself felt odd; Dutton was usually there to assist her in the mornings, with crisply pressed drawers at the ready so that Evelyn need never linger overlong in the nude.
After a steadying breath, Evelyn gathered up the fabric and hoisted it over her head.
She’d occasionally found herself caught up in her thoughts as of late, wondering how he would see her. Never before had she cared much about what others thought of her, but this was different. This was her husband. Her eyes fell to the softness of her stomach, and she remembered the woman in front of the archbishop’s palace in London that summer. The way she’d said that Evelyn was well-fed—with such derision, as if it would be preferable for her to starve.
The soft rustle of fabric brought her back to the present. In her bedroom, on her wedding night.
Evelyn looked over her shoulder, and her heart caught in her throat.
Mr. Hartley had removed his woolen undervest, his trousers, his drawers. He stood nude before her, more real than the plates of Italian statues found in the art books in Methering Manor’s library. More dynamic, with blood in his veins and a challenge on his face. A thatch of dark hair and then his manhood, thick and erect.
Wordlessly, she turned about, baring herself to him, watching his face. What was she searching for? Appreciation? Desire?
When he did not speak, Evelyn lay back on the bed and shut her eyes.
For several agonizingly long moments she heard nothing. Then, finally, the creak of the floorboards as he moved. Her heartbeat picked up, but still she kept her eyes closed. Was that not what she ought to do? Wait for him to go about the business, the tupping? A bit belatedly, she remembered her part in it all, and she spread her legs, truly exposing herself to him.
The air felt cold.
She heard him release a long, appreciative sigh.
“You’re lovely. Absolutely lovely,” he said, his voice gravelly and strained.
Her eyes shot open. Her? She lifted her head slightly, eager to see his face.
He had taken himself in hand, and was slowly stroking up and down.
Her breath caught in her throat. The sight of him brought forth outrageous desires from within her—images of acts and possibilities she’d never known. Why, merely entertaining such thoughts seemed positively shameless. She forced a shuddering breath, then met his gaze.
“May I touch you?” he asked, licking his lips and closing his eyes even as his hand worked. “If you do not wish, I promise—”
“No,” Evelyn rasped hurriedly, cutting him off. “I mean, yes, you may. You may, that is…” She swallowed and lowered herself back onto the bed, squeezing her eyes shut once more. “Please. I find myself…” She paused as she felt the blush in her cheeks nearly erupt into flames. “Desirous of it. Of all of it.”
How could she bear to face herself in the mirror again? Evelyn Wolfenden, the shockingly debauched spinster?
No, she silently corrected herself. Evelyn Hartley.
And then she gasped aloud. His hand was upon her breast, gently squeezing, holding it as if testing its weight. His thumb rubbed along the underside.
The new, tense feeling twisting about inside her burst forth, overpowering all of her senses as it forced itself to the forefront, demanding to be attended to. Ignorant of how to do so, she did all she could, which was to arch her back, pushing herself up against his hand.
He took her other breast into his mouth, grazing the nipple with his teeth while his fingers teased at the other.
And finally, to her utter mortification, Evelyn did moan.
But there was no time to dwell on it, for his ministrations continued, building pleasure upon pleasure within her. And then he shifted, and she felt him against her waist, hard and insistent. She bucked her hips upward, but that only pushed him away.
He’d left a bead of wetness upon her skin.
“Not yet, not yet,” he said, and he moved once more toward her neck.
When he kissed her along the line of her jaw, she mewled, like some pathetic kitten. She grabbed at him, digging her fingers into the hard curves of his upper arms.
“Why not?” she hissed, desperate to have him closer. Desperate to end this delicious torture, this harrowing display of humiliating noises she’d never known herself capable of making.
“Because,” he asserted, before placing a silencing kiss upon her mouth.
After several heady, drawn-out moments, he pulled back, his lips wet and swollen. He reached down between her legs, cupping her possessively. Then he deftly parted her lips and dipped two fingers deep within her, before curling them back again as if beckoning something forth.
“It’s only gentlemanly, after all, that you have your pleasure first.”
Before she could marshal a verbal reply, her body once more supplied an inelegant, involuntary response: a long, hedonistic groan.
And then he pulled his brilliant fingers out and slid them slowly up along her to someplace higher, someplace on her body she’d previously been unaware of but knew the moment he teased it with his slick fingertips. It felt like heaven, when he touched her there, and she could not fathom what was happening as she clawed at his neck and shoulders. Her core felt restless, and she writhed under his hand, his forceful kisses upon her neck. It was agonizing, frenzied; she knew not what she sought but resolved to have it all the same.
And then, with a sudden lurch, she hit ecstasy. Her vision sparked, and shouts escaped her throat. Even as he was atop her, she flung herself into him, limbs heated and weak, drunk on this languid, liquid bliss.
She felt his low chuckle against her cheek, followed by a gentle kiss.
He pulled himself up. She could not move, she found, so she did not protest when he gently took hold of her thighs and pulled her forward, toward the edge of the bed. With a soft touch, he pushed her legs apart, running his hand along her once more.
She shuddered. And then, something thicker and harder than his hand was pressed against the wetness of her lips, sliding against them in slow, measured movements.
Electricity shot through her.
“Do you still wish…” he started, his voice hoarse, allowing the question to hang in the air between them.
Evelyn nodded, noting the ache between her legs, the slight dampness of sweat upon her chest and back. Desirous of all of it.
“It might hurt, this time,” he said, a hint of an apology in his voice.
She nodded again, and squeezed her eyes shut. Her fingers dug into the sheets, clutching them in her fists as she concentrated on not bucking her hips upward again.
“Say it,” he groaned, positioning himself agonizingly at her entrance. “I need to hear it.”
“Yes,” she choked.
In that moment she wanted nothing more than to be his wife, in every sense of the word. He belonged to her now, and she to him.
And then he thrust into her, filling her and, for a moment, hurting her as her body yielded to his. He paused, remaining inside her as the pain receded to a dull ache, and then he drew back slowly, delectably.
“All right?” he asked, stroking her hip with one hand as he dug the other into the flesh of her rear.
She failed to respond articulately, but the muddled sound she made must have given him enough peace of mind, for he thrust forth again, aided by her wetness.
“Fuck,” he cursed, kneading her bottom with both hands now. “Your arse,” he explained, and left it at that, too lost in the rhythm he’d settled into to elaborate.
Evelyn felt that ache inside her once more, and she moved against it. But it was not enough to bring her to the same heights again, for he was moving faster, more forcefully. He sputtered out a flurry of speech rife with blue language, then thrust deep into her one final time.
She gasped, out of both pleasure and frustration. How she’d wanted to feel that a second time! And she’d been so tantalizingly close…
Mr. Hartley fell forward, his slick, hard body atop hers, his mouth kissing her sternum, her breast.
“Evelyn,” he whispered.
Panic hit her square in the chest, instantly dousing the fire in her veins, the bliss in her limbs, the agonizing yearning at her core. She felt frozen to the bed.
“What is it?” he asked, still catching his breath.
One hand ran along her side, up to cup her breast.
Gingerly she set her own hand atop it.
It was her fault; she’d forgotten herself. Moving against him. Kissing him so wantonly. Making those… noises.
“Please, ‘Mrs. Hartley’ is perfectly adequate,” she said, with all the hauteur she could manage in her current state.
Mr. Hartley pulled out and off of her, moving away and into a sitting position.
“Perfectly adequate? Ought we make do with ‘perfectly adequate?’”
She could hear the derision in his voice, the implied challenge. But she would not lower herself to such a silly debate. She’d made her preferences known. And although she had forgotten herself in the surprisingly enjoyable act of joining, she would not lose her head again.
“I believe I was clear about my wishes on this matter.”
Steadfastness or nothing.
He scoffed and shifted further away, and she rolled in the opposite direction, over onto her side.
She heard his feet land on the floor, and his footsteps signaled that he moved about the room. The clink of the ewer on her washstand and the slosh of water into the basin told her that he was cleaning himself up. Evelyn found the idea of facing him difficult just now, after that display. She was slick with his spend and some blood; she’d done her wifely duty. Now that she knew what to expect, she would be more reserved, more controlled the next time he came to her bed.
She hoped.
“Well. You have my permission to call me Marcus whenever the fancy strikes.”
“Thank you, I don’t expect it ever shall.” She stared at the matelassé coverlet underneath her, and reached out with a delicate finger to trace the stitching pattern. Perhaps, if she ever fancied herself in love… but that was a ridiculous notion. Something a dunderhead like Edmund would have stumbled into.
Now she heard chuckling. The bed dipped as Mr. Hartley returned, and he placed a gentle hand on her backside.
Evelyn felt herself blush, but she steeled herself and turned to him.
“Well then,” he said. He had a lazy look about him, a soft smile playing upon his wonderful lips.
Her heart tightened.
In one hand he held a neatly folded square of toweling. “May I…” He gestured toward her.
“No thank you,” she said as she snatched the toweling. It was damp.
Evelyn turned away, not willing to allow him anything as improper as that. But she added apologetically, “Although I appreciate the consideration.”
“Would you have me stay for the night?”
The low purr of his voice seemed to reverberate in her aching core.
But it would not do, to capitulate to every familiarity simply because of his voice. And the sensations it caused.
“If you prefer,” she replied, then hesitated before adding, “I believe, though, in order to achieve our purposes, further exertion may be unnecessary.”
“Our purposes?”
“I intend to bear you a child or two, as discussed.”
He didn’t respond, but she felt him behind her. And then his hand was upon her again, sliding along her side, groping her breast. Pulling her back against him.
She sighed involuntarily, and nearly clapped a hand over her mouth. Instead she pressed her lips shut, lest she lose her composure once more.
“I know you come from cold people,” he whispered against her neck, punctuating every few words with a light kiss.
Evelyn shivered, despite her best efforts.
“But I wish to know you. If you would allow it.”
She shut her eyes, enduring the gorgeous warmth of his touch, the steady weight of his body against hers.
He placed one long kiss upon her shoulder, then gave her hip a squeeze.
“Goodnight, Mrs. Hartley.”
And then he withdrew. She heard him collect his effects and exit through the same door he’d entered earlier.
She remained still for a long moment, then finally let herself fall onto her back, trying to will visions of a nude, virile Marcus Hartley from her mind, with little success.
Evelyn sighed again, then set to cleaning herself off with the toweling he’d brought her. There was more blood than she’d anticipated; thank goodness she hadn’t allowed him to tidy her up. The very thought made her blanche.
Ah well, she thought. If nothing else, she had a sneaking suspicion she’d excelled in this particular feminine pursuit, if Mr. Hartley’s words and smiles were to be believed.
She allowed herself a bit of pride at that.