Chapter Twenty-Four
While Oliva sat at her dressing table, Susie fussing over her hair, a soft knock came on the door. The maid opened it, then let out a squeak.
Olivia’s husband stood in the doorway, dressed only in his breeches.
“Oh! L-Lord Devereaux, I-I didn’t expect…”
“It’s all right, Susie,” Olivia said. “You may go.”
“But…”
“I’ll be all right,” Olivia said, meeting her husband’s gaze.
Susie approached the door and cringed, dwarfed by Charles’s huge frame. Then she bobbed a curtsey and teetered sideways. He caught her elbow and she whimpered, but he smiled and nodded.
“Th-thank you, my lord.”
She curtseyed again, then fled, closing the door behind her.
He sighed and glanced at the door, fingering his signet ring.
“She’s young,” Olivia said. “Anyone would be wary of a man such as yourself, let alone a maid hardly out of the nursery.”
He tilted his head to one side and frowned.
“I-I mean a titled man,” she said. “I was terrified of Montague when I first met him, and you’re so much…so…” She gestured toward him.
So much bigger.
He approached her, his footsteps hesitant, then gestured with his hands.
“Wait,” she said. “I’ve just the thing you need.”
She plucked a piece of paper and pencil from the dressing table and held them up.
“I had Mrs. Brougham place these around the house—at least while I’m still learning your hand gestures.”
Astonishment flicked across his expression, then a spark of pleasure flared in his eyes as he reached for the paper.
“I had better learn quickly,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to use all your paper, given how expensive it is, but I suppose after tonight…”
She broke off, cringing with shame, but when she looked up, she saw only kindness in Charles’s eyes.
He stooped over the table and scribbled on the paper.
Thank you.
He glanced toward the bed, and Olivia’s heart gave a flutter of anticipation. Trembling, she approached the bed.
He continued to write, then held up the paper. It trembled in his hands, as if caught in a breeze. But there was no breeze. He was as nervous as she.
She took the paper and read the words.
I will be as gentle as I can.
“I know,” she whispered. “I-I trust you.”
Doubt darkened his eyes. Did he think so little of himself that he was incapable of earning her trust? He had already earned it, tending to her with such kindness, not chiding her for her recklessness. Did he require another gesture of trust?
I have nothing to give him.
Except myself.
Swallowing her embarrassment, Olivia gripped the hem of her nightgown, then pulled it over her head, discarding it on the floor.
The cool air tightened her bare skin, and her husband stepped forward, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
Had she been too forward? Eleanor said that Montague liked it when she removed her garments for him. Perhaps Charles had different tastes.
Aware of his gaze on her, Olivia climbed into the bed.
Then he unbuttoned his breeches. Heat prickled on her skin as he stepped out of them, and that part of him that she feared, but also yearned to see once more, sprang free, jutting proudly from the nest of thick, dark curls at the top of his thighs.
He picked up the solitary candle and raised his eyebrows in inquiry.
Darkness would lessen her shame at being so exposed to him.
But what if he preferred the light? Eleanor said that some men liked to look at a woman’s body, and that she relished being looked at by Montague.
But the sensations swirling throughout Olivia’s body and mind—the heat from Charles’s gaze and the shame as her wantonness—threatened to overcome her.
Then he blew sharply and extinguished the candle. A puff of smoke dissipated in the air, and a tiny orange glow at the tip of the wick reflected in his eyes before it disappeared.
Olivia exhaled, then her breath hitched as the bed shifted under his weight.
He slipped under the bedsheet, and she suppressed a cry as their bodies touched.
The raw, masculine scent of him filled the air and she inhaled, savoring his woody aroma.
He cupped her face and coaxed her head around to face him, and she caught the faint glow of his eyes in the darkness.
He grew still. Did he not wish to continue? Had his valet spoken the truth and he found her repulsive? But then he brushed his mouth against hers. His lips were warm and soft, with the faint taste of spice. He let out a sigh, his warm breath caressing her skin.
Then she understood. He was waiting for her consent.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I-I want this.”
Gently, he rolled her onto her back, then climbed on top of her until they were chest to chest. A fizz of need rippled over her skin as he shifted position, and she focused on the delicious, unfathomable sensation until it centered on her breasts, where her nipples had hardened to painful points against his chest.
Sweet heaven, what was happening? Her skin burned as if it were on fire and a wicked heat bloomed between her thighs. She shifted her legs, and shame engulfed her as they grew slick with moisture.
Then she felt his length, as hard as steel, against her thigh.
He placed a hand on her leg then teased her thighs open.
But this time, she was ready. Conquering her embarrassment, she parted her legs for him, and he settled on top of her, as if he fitted there, the tip of him prodding against her center.
He grew still once more. She reached up and grasped his arms. His muscles, hard and toned, bulged with effort as he held his body up to prevent his weight from crushing her.
“Don’t stop. Please…Charles.”
As she whispered his name, he let out a deep sigh and sank inside her.
He paused for a heartbeat, then thrust forward, and she bit her lip at the sharp nip of pain.
He withdrew, slowly, then stilled once more, but she circled her arms around his neck, willing him to continue.
With a low groan, he thrust inside her again.
The pain lessened to a dull ache as he continued to move in and out, his breathing growing deeper and harsher.
Then, with a sharp exhalation, he plunged into her, shuddering, and a rush of warmth flooded into her body.
He clung to her, shaking, while his breathing subsided, then he withdrew.
Despite the soreness between her thighs, a sense of loss filled Olivia as looked up at him. Her eyes having grown accustomed to the dark, she saw his gaze fixed on her, brow furrowed with concern.
“I-is that… I mean—have we…?”
He nodded and sat up. Then he placed his hand against her cheek.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He shook his head, took her hand, and kissed it, brushing his lips over her knuckles. Then he climbed off the bed, pulled on his breeches, and padded over to the door. He opened it, paused for a moment to glance back at her, then slipped outside, closing it behind him.
The deed was done.
Eleanor had said that a woman’s first time could be painful, but with a man who loved her, it could also be immensely pleasurable. Yet though Olivia had caught a faint glimpse of distant pleasure from her body’s reaction, in the end, she had only felt pain.
Had he taken pleasure from it? Other than a few sharp exhalations, he’d given no sign.
Oh, Eleanor—if only I had you here to guide me!
Olivia rolled onto her side, swallowing her shame at the stickiness between her thighs. Sharp cramps jabbed at her stomach, and she curled her knees up, willing them to subside, then waited for sleep to come while the echo of her husband’s footsteps faded.