Chapter One #2
Instead of speaking, he took off his wrap, sat down on the bed, then extended his impossibly large legs beneath the sheet. Beside him, she was warm and sweet-smelling. Each time she took a breath, the rise and subsequent fall of her chest made interesting contours in the fabric of her chemise.
Inviting contours.
The importance of proceeding “the right way” slowly ceded to more primal urges. He shifted onto his side and cupped her neck. He placed a closed-mouth kiss on each of her cheeks and then brushed his lips over hers. Even brief contact burdened his breath.
She blinked up at him, bewildered.
He bent down again, moving his mouth along her jaw, following a dab of scent to a spot just beneath her ear. She sighed and placed a hand on the back of his neck. Every hair on his body stood straight.
He rested his forehead against hers and heard her breath quicken.
Encouraging.
Hesitantly, at least at first, he palmed her breast. But when he moved to stimulate her nipple, she made a sound of protest. He glanced up, searching her face.
She stared at him, a wild, desperate look in her eyes. Then, she dropped her gaze and threaded her fingers through his, returning his hand to the same spot he’d abandoned.
“Go on,” she whispered.
Lud, this was awkward.
Every time he’d been…amorous with Viv, she had mewed and simpered, undulated and encouraged. Not so, Cassandra.
His wife did not push him away, but neither did she draw him close. Still, beneath his ungainly hand, her heartbeat fluttered faster than a fledgling’s wings. Her skin was heating. From what he remembered, warm skin was a sign of desire, wasn’t it?
He glanced beneath the tented sheet to where their legs mingled.
Yes, even her thighs had pinked.
She whimpered as she took note of his perusal, not with desire, but with what sounded more like deeply rattled mortification.
Perhaps he ought to have doused the lights?
His gaze flicked back to her face, seeking guidance. But she had turned her cheek into her pillow. The one eye visible to him was firmly closed.
“You are beautiful,” he murmured reassuringly. Whatever their reasons for marrying, this much he could truthfully offer. “I find you…enchanting.”
Her lids barely opened. She studied him in silence.
Wife. His wife.
He caressed her cheek, then moved his hand back to her breast, holding her gaze as he stimulated the peak. This time she did respond. Her back arched, her lips parted, and her breath deepened. Another small whimper escaped, this one leaving him light and woozy.
“Do you know what is to come?”
After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded.
Without him asking—thank heaven—she parted her legs. They’d skipped a step—or ten—had they not? But what did he truly know?
Would she mock him if she knew he, too, had “saved” this act for his wedding night?
Damn his romantic soul.
Yesterday, after all the ladies in the household had taken themselves off to bed, Harbury—slightly tipsy—had posed a question to his closest friend, his sworn brother: How did one bed a virgin?
Adrian’s answer? Good God, man. And then, a moment later. You’re serious, aren’t you?
He’d only nodded.
Adrian had swallowed roughly, shrugged, then suggested, gently?
Not comprehensive as instructions go.
Harbury’s explorations with Viv constituted the sum of his carnal experience.
Viv, whom he’d loved, and who had allowed his hands and lips, but nothing more, to wander freely.
On the shameful times he’d given into temptation and pleasured himself, he’d only had images from what he’d seen in forbidden books.
Thank God there’d been no witnesses present then, either.
How disconcerting to have what had been off-limits now presented to him without restriction—a living, breathing, willing, beautiful lady. How was bedding her not only permitted but his duty?
As tenderly as he could, he drew up her rail. He caressed her mound, causing her to make another, unintentional yip, but his fingers came away damp and glistening. He couldn’t help himself. He took in the scent.
“Harbury!” she gasped.
Fire burned in his cheeks. “I need to make certain you are ready…”
Her gaze fixed on his hand. He knew she hadn’t understood, but she answered, “I’m ready.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But this may still hurt.”
“I know.” She sighed. “Please, just…just…go on.”
Her “encouragement” landed as an accusation. But why should he feel wounded? Of course, she wanted the first time over and done with. She was embarrassed.
So was he.
Very well. He’d a task to complete, and, truth be told, a cock more than eager to participate. He might as well go on.
Careful to support as much of his weight as he was able, he positioned himself. Then, murmuring a soft apology, he thrust his way into a tight, slick passage fiercely protesting his invasion. Even so, a spasm of pleasure briefly blanked his mind.
Good God, St. Michael, and all the bloody dragons that ever lived.
The warm, wet sensation engulfed and shocked him, but nothing could have prepared him for the unbelievable experience of being joined.
He was inside a lady—his lady. A visceral, spontaneous bond slipped into place.
Instinctively, he set his cheek against hers, crooning unsummoned words, words of comfort, assurances the pain would soon be over.
Her limbs grew pliant. Was her body merely accepting the inevitability of surrender?
His was vibrating with song.
Her breasts caressed his chest as she adjusted herself beneath him. Hesitantly, she placed her hands on his shoulders.
“That’s better,” she said against his neck.
Yes. So much better.
He withdrew, only to thrust into her again—ungracefully, at first, but soon enough he found the rhythm. Her fingers trembled against his shoulders, then pressed harder, as if she couldn’t decide whether to push him away or pull him closer.
Her hot breath fanned his ear. Her eyelashes tickled his cheek. More, he thought, more—while teetering on the edge of…what? Oblivion?
Fulfillment?
Words failed, so his body spoke soundlessly of need, want, and delight. Then, he lost awareness of everything but the staccato release of his seed. He came back into his mind with a full body exhale, a profound sense of gratitude and…
Well, more than a little chagrin.
What now?
He kissed her cheeks again before withdrawing, rolling onto his back and then taking her hand in his. The floodgates had broken, washing him in relief, exhaustion, and…happiness?
Yes. Happiness.
He’d done something right.
He squeezed her hand.
In fact, bedding Cassandra may have been the “rightest” thing he’d ever done.
*
Thank heavens.
He’d moved. Cassie could finally breathe. The worst was over, and, while the bedding had not been quite as painful as she’d anticipated, more than anything in the wide world, the Duchess of Harbury wanted the Duke of Harbury out of her bed.
Now.
But demanding Harbury leave would be unforgivably rude, what with him collapsed at her side and his fingers threaded through hers.
Annoyingly, he’d begun dragging his thumb repeatedly along her forefinger, as if, even though he’d withdrawn, he did not want to fully break their curious, alien connection.
That doesn’t mean he genuinely cares for you!
So, you break it! Snatch back your hand. Turn away. Bid him—in no uncertain terms—good night.
She worried her bottom lip.
She’d wanted him. Even after his outrageous behavior at Almack’s, she’d wanted him for her own. And yet startling, volcanic, and violently angry directives were erupting in her mind, splashing fury and heat in every direction.
What fiery, internal force had caused the disturbance?
Certainly not her! Everyone knew Cassandra Wainwright was the most dutiful and kind of the five Wainwright sisters, always accommodating and sweet.
Taradiddle and bilgewater.
She was no longer Cassandra Wainwright, but Duchess of Harbury. And Cassandra, Duchess of Harbury was currently hedgehog prickly and more bad-tempered than Eliza and Millie, her two most outspoken sisters.
And she didn’t want to be nice, even though she should be nice.
He’d been gentle, patient, and devil take him, tender…which made her fury even more unacceptable. She had even, for an involuntary moment, been deeply joined to him, at the cusp of a revelation she had known would fill her with awe. Empty promise.
Just like her vows, though she couldn’t claim she was with Harbury against her will. She was here, in this bed, in this house, in this marriage as a result of an agreement she’d initiated.
She had proposed to Harbury via desperate letter in the dead of night.
Of course, she’d done so only because Harbury had unthinkingly destroyed her reputation with a single, impulsive dance. And because her twin sister Eliza’s attempts to restore their family to respectability had, that very night, gone horribly, irrevocably awry.
Or so Cassie had believed at the time.
Another lie.
Eliza had believed her plans had come to naught. Cassie had a strong feeling, even then, the Marquess of Redver had fallen as hard for Eliza as she had for him, which did turn out to be the case—so, ha.
But having been proven right didn’t provide Cassie much comfort. Slightly more consoling was the fact that, during that brief period of uncertainty, she had taken control for the first time in her life. Taking control had felt good.
Amazingly good.
Everyone had been pleased with her choice, too. Only Eliza had tried to change her mind. Her godmother, Lady Asquith, and Harbury’s sister, Lady Sarah, had each separately suggested Harbury needed her. Harbury needed calm-spirited, dutiful Cassie. Virtuous. Respectable. Accommodat—
Get out of my damned bed.
She covered her mouth with her free hand, as if she could hold in her fury. Because if she let him see, let him know, he might refuse to keep his end of their marital bargain. He was to do everything in his power to help her younger sisters establish themselves in the coming Season.
“Thank you, Cassandra.”