Chapter Four
Alain studied himself in the looking glass as he tried to tie his cravat fashionably, to make himself look presentable and respectable for his fiancée’s family. His fiancée. His betrothed.
His fingers fumbled on the crisp muslin, and he resisted the urge to run his fingers through his hair, to muss the carefully tamed curls Catherine and Francoise had worked so hard on. They’d told him he had to look his very best tonight.
None of this felt real. He’d longed to prove himself in the world, to make his way, until time ran out for those ambitions. That felt even more dreamlike than anything else, that a lady might actually wish to marry him. Especially a lady like Sandrine.
His hands went still as he thought of her, of her sweet smiles, her soft curls and gentle manners.
The sparkle in her bright green eyes as she shared art with him, shared a new way of looking at the world.
She’d entirely surprised him. He’d expected her to be haughty, and she was kind.
Snobby, and she took in every bit of the world around her.
She’d seemed so quiet when he first glimpsed her at Madame de Fleurieu’s, so shy.
And it was true she didn’t chatter, didn’t preen, but she was funny.
Observant. Pretty. She was moved by beauty, created beauty, had such depth.
She was interested in people, and they felt comfortable around her once they sensed that interest. It was amazing.
He’d known one day he would have to marry, and despite any desperate hopes for fortune’s reversal, his marriage could not be to Danielle.
Now he had to face facts, face his duty, find a lady willing to make that bargain.
He hadn’t expected it would be to someone he could really like.
That heated burst of lightning when he touched her hand—so entirely unexpected.
She certainly was pretty, no denying it, her beauty growing the more one knew her, talked to her.
When she laughed, those green eyes shimmered like a summer’s day.
He closed his eyes, and remembered how she had looked when she studied the Fra Angelico painting.
So absorbed, so enthralled. He’d felt sure in that moment that maybe he could find something to offer her after all.
He could give her that sort of freedom. Surely she was bound just as he was in family duty.
If they were married, she would have the protection to pursue her art, to travel and see museums and galleries, take lessons, seek the recognition she was due.
He opened his eyes, and found he had mangled the cravat beyond saving.
He tossed it aside and reached for another.
He had to stay on the path now, remember his duty, what he could give Sandrine, not be distracted.
Not be selfish, as he’d always been. Not make things more complicated than they needed to be.
He had no plans, just hopes. Desperate, desperate hopes.
Sandrine feared she had no idea what to do next.
It was her wedding night! Yet the wedding itself had not felt as she imagined; Alain seemed distracted, distant.
She had no idea what to do now. Her mother had carefully gone over every detail of the day itself, but when it came to the night, she’d just stammered a few words like, ‘Just lie still,’ and ‘Soon be over,’ and left Sandrine in a greater whirl of confusion than before.
She paced the length of the chamber they’d been given for the night, the very grandest guest room in her parents’ house, a space she was sure they’d designed just in case the French king in exile ever happened to visit. It was seldom touched, and Sandrine had barely been in it before then.
She studied herself in the dressing-table mirror, smoothing the fall of her loosened hair, comparing it to Danielle Aurac’s beautiful golden waves.
She knew she couldn’t compare, but surely she looked presentable?
Attractive, even? She felt so nervous at the thought, the hope, that Alain would think so.
She sat down on the edge of the massive bed, smoothing the green brocade counterpane under her palms. Should she pretend to be asleep?
Pretend to be eager? She touched the loose fall of her hair, and wondered if she should braid it.
Would it look childish? Danielle Aurac was so elegant, with her smooth, golden hair, her oval face that surely never felt a burning blush.
She closed her eyes, and thought again of her mother’s embarrassed, whispered words about the night ahead.
The vague warnings, the promises it would be over quickly and soon there would be beautiful babies.
She wasn’t completely foolish; she’d heard whispers among the maids, and knew the logistics of what happened. It didn’t sound pleasant.
Yet, whenever Alain touched her, it wasn’t frightening at all. Surely there was something there to build on?
If only she knew what it would be like, the marriage bed.
That uncertainty made her long to leap out of her skin, to run and scream.
She jumped up and dashed to the window, pushing aside the heavy satin draperies to peer out.
It had rained for a time after the party, and the street gleamed and glittered in the moonlight.
She’d never seen it so bright! Everything looked different with Alain.
There was so much out there to explore and discover.
There was a soft knock at the door, and she jumped, nearly knocking over a small table that held a carafe of wine. ‘E-enter,’ she croaked, wishing she had something more enticing to say.
Alain stepped into the room, and hesitated on the threshold for a moment, almost as if he was shy.
But that couldn’t be! Alain—unsure? She felt no one who looked like him, a red dressing gown draped over his broad shoulders, his hair curling over his brow in a tumble she longed to smooth back, could possibly be unsure.
Yet his hesitant smile made her want to run to him, to wrap him in her arms. She wasn’t alone in this.
She straightened the table, feeling silly for doubting.
They watched each other, the quiet moving and swirling between them.
Oh, how she wished she knew what was expected of her!
What he wanted of her. Should she take off her clothes, blow out the candles?
Wait for him under the turned-back bedclothes?
She peeked up at him, and found him studying her carefully, his eyes hooded, and very dark. She could read nothing there.
Finally, finally, he took a step towards her and held out his hand. ‘Sandrine. Please don’t be afraid. I would never hurt you.’
She wasn’t so sure of that. Oh, she knew very well he would never, ever hurt her physically.
He had nothing of that cruel streak she sensed in some other men, that pleasure in wounding.
But her heart—she did fear for that. She couldn’t resist going to him, taking his hand. It felt cold under her touch.
‘I—don’t know what to do,’ she admitted.
‘Sandrine. You just have to be. It’s only you and me here tonight.
’ His arms slid around her waist and drew her closer, slowly, gently, his eyes watching her so carefully as if for any sign she might flee.
She couldn’t stop shaking, so much longing flowing through her she was sure she would burst with it.
His head bent down towards hers, and his lips touched hers ever so softly.
She knew her mother told her not to resist, to just go along with whatever happened, but that was not at all what she wanted to do.
What she felt. Every place he touched left tiny droplets of fire behind, and she wanted more.
More of what she’d felt when he kissed her before.
She eased his dressing gown back from his shoulders, letting her touch slide over the warm silk of his skin, feeling him, knowing him, letting her hunger burst free.
He seemed to feel it, too, for he groaned against her lips, and pulled her closer. They tumbled backwards to the bed, the kiss sliding down into frantic need. Her own dressing gown melted away under his touch, and they were pressed together.
He kissed the corner of her trembling mouth, the curve of her jaw, finding one tiny, sensitive spot.
His teeth nipped lightly at that curve behind her ear, and a shudder shot through her body.
She ran her fingers along the groove of his back, wondering that she could touch him like that, feel him with her.
He was right, it was only them that night. She had no need to be afraid.
Her arms wound around his shoulders, holding him against her as they sank deeper into the feather mattress.
He kissed the swell of her breast above the lace edge of her nightdress, caressed her, shockingly tracing the pink of her nipple through the thin silk of her gown.
His touch was light, gentle, but it was shocking, glorious.
‘Alain,’ she gasped, and he gave her what she hoped for, closing his mouth around her aching nipple, rolling his tongue over it.
She moaned, and her hands fell away to twist into the sheets. He lowered himself over her, and she loved how heavy he felt, how small she was with him.
He took one of her hands, and pressed it flat to his chest. She felt the roughness of hair under her palm, that heat of his skin, the pounding of his heart that echoed her own. ‘Oh, Sandrine. I want to make you happy, to give you such pleasure. Always.’
‘I want that, too,’ she whispered. ‘Pleasure for us. So much. I just—I’ve never…’
‘Trust me, chérie. I beg you, just trust me.’
She nodded. ‘Always.’ He kissed her again.
He tasted her deeply, and when she melted into him, relishing the delight of that moment, he gently slid her gossamer-thin gown over her shoulders, skimmed it along her body, watching every inch he bared with such hunger in his eyes, until he tossed it to the floor.
His fingertips caressed her shoulders, the soft curve of her breasts, the curve of her waist, gentle, enticing. She shivered, adrift on a warm sea of pure sensation. All fear was gone, all uncertainty. This was where they were meant to be.
He lowered himself between her trembling thighs, nudging them apart, and dared to touch the very core of her with the tips of his fingers.
Lightly, skilfully. She gasped at the sparkling sensations that shot through her, and couldn’t stop wriggling beneath him.
He wouldn’t let her go so easily. She grabbed his hand as she sensed it would move even deeper.
‘Are you sure you’re supposed to do that? ’
He laughed, the sound so wonderful. ‘Sandrine. My betrothed. I do wish you wouldn’t think so much. Not just at this moment. Please, please, let me just help you feel.’ That touch slid back over her. ‘Can you trust me?’
She stared up at him as he rose on his knees above her, and she loved his face, so handsome, so tender, so shaded in light and dark. So intent only on her. She cast aside that last shred of doubt. She had to trust him. Her heart was his.
She nodded slowly, and he smiled down at her. He took her hand, where her new rings sparkled, and pressed it again to his heart, where she could feel the powerful rhythm of it moving in time with hers. It was impossible to breathe, they were bonded so closely in that moment.
‘I want to give you pleasure, Sandrine, to make you happy if I can,’ he said.
She stared up at him. Did he not know how happy she already was, how she was sure she would float up into the sky and lose herself completely in the giddy happiness of that moment? She’d thought this would never be her life, never be such a dream come true. ‘Yes.’
He swooped down and covered her mouth with his, kissing her with all the pent-up hunger that had been growing between them ever since they had met. Their kiss was all-consuming, humid, hot, banishing all else.
He touched her most secret place again, combing his fingertips through the damp curls before easing inside her, shockingly, wonderfully, stoking her desire to new, bonfire heights.
A strange little mewing sound she didn’t recognise escaped before she could catch it as he found that one perfect little spot. His thumb caressed it, harder, faster, and she cried out.
‘I’m so sorry, Sandrine,’ he whispered.
‘Sorry?’ she murmured, confused.
‘I can’t wait any longer.’
She nodded. ‘I’m ready.’ Oh, so ready.
She closed her eyes, determined to remember every second, absorb every sensation.
He slid carefully, slowly into her, his every muscle tense as if he was trying to be perfectly careful of her.
He braced his arms to either side of her, his muscles corded, holding himself above her.
When she eased her palms down his back, she felt the dampness of his exertions, the taut strength of him, his sheathed desire that echoed her own. She longed for it to fly free!
At last, at last, he plunged forward and they were joined as one.
She held him close, tracing the groove of his lean backside, the length of his spine, with her fingertips, that power of him as he shifted and moaned and surged.
She felt a twinge of sharp pain, a stretching, burning sensation, but then only the soft, spreading heat of pleasure.
She raised her hips to draw him in even deeper.
He braced his forearms to either side of her head and held himself very still for a moment. His face was tense, his eyes closed.
‘Please,’ she whispered.
Slowly, enticingly, he eased back and rocked forward again, moving a little faster. With each movement they were joined more deeply, and she learned to move with him. A delicious, tingling glow spread through her body, to the very tips of her toes, and she gasped with the joy of it.
She wrapped her legs around his lean hips as he thrust into her, faster and faster.
‘Alain!’ she cried. ‘I can’t—I’m…’
‘Just let it happen. Be free, Sandrine!’
So she did. She let go of everything else, burst into a fiery explosion of joy.
‘Sandrine!’ he shouted. His body arched above hers, his back bowed. ‘Sandrine.’
He fell to the bed beside her, their limbs entwined as the sparkling sunbursts faded into cool, beautiful shadows.
She felt the heat of his breath against her shoulder, as ragged as her own.
His arm wrapped around her waist, holding her close, and she lazily reached up to twine her shaking fingers in the damp, silken strands of his hair.
How very weak and tired she felt! Yet also how light and, and yes, free. Why had she ever been scared of this act, this moment? It was perfection.
His breath slowed as he slid down into sleep, and she sat up to press a kiss to his damp brow. He sighed, and his clasp tightened on her, wanting to be so near even in exhausted sleep. Married life would surely not be bad at all.