Chapter 12 #2
“Every bedroom has a hearth, just as each room downstairs does. That’s part of what I love about this place. Once you get it warm, it will stay toasty for days, provided the wind isn’t too bad.”
“Nice view of the stream,” Richard said, peering out a somewhat dusty window.
The second bedroom was much like the first, but simply seeing Richard in proximity to a bed, even one without hangings or bedding, flustered Mabel. A bed was so premeditated, so unimaginative.
Should she ask whether he wanted to be kissed? He’d made no move to touch her since they’d arrived. Was he still pondering Granny Wexler’s reticence?
“The largest bedroom has the best view,” Mabel said, a sense of determination fueling her progress down the corridor. “And it has a balcony over the terrace.”
Richard followed on silent feet.
The third bedroom covered about half the second floor and included a small dressing closet.
One corner of the room served as a private parlor, with wing chairs under Holland covers and footstools turned upside down.
The other half of the room held the vanity, cedar chest, and four-poster, which was adorned with green velvet hangings.
The cotton sacking of the mattress was bare, the pillows stacked against the headboard.
An old quilt had been folded across the cedar chest.
The rug was rolled up and stashed beneath the bed, lest sunlight fade the colors.
Forlorn rather than romantic. What had she been thinking?
“This is delightful,” Richard said, opening the French doors that led to the balcony. “I love the sound of living water, and we have so much of it in Merry Olde. I can understand why shepherds would enjoy biding here. Is the balcony safe?”
“Absolutely. I’ve spent many an hour reading in that old wicker chair.”
The balcony was in shadow, too, owing to the midday hour. The air was warmer than in the house and the breeze mild. The canopy of the home wood still bore a hint of the chartreuse green unique to spring, and all was scented with turned earth and woods.
“A respite,” Richard said, holding out a hand to her. “Thank you.”
Mabel emerged onto the balcony and took his hand. “More private than the orchard.” Oh, that was subtle.
She kept hold of his hand and wrapped her free arm around his waist. After a beat of silence, Richard brought his arms around her and rested his cheek against her temple.
Well, then, best get on with it. Embraces led to kisses, and kisses led to caresses and more than caresses.
A seduction required all of the above, but Mabel wished in a foolish corner of her heart that in addition to all the panting and passion to come, she could have an endless moment to savor the sweetness of Richard’s embrace.
Richard could not read Amabel’s mood. She was preoccupied, or annoyed, or… something characteristic of females whom one sought in vain to understand. She was all pleasant conversation one moment, inscrutable silence the next, and brisk tour guide the one after that.
And now this, a sweet embrace that had an air of fatigue about it.
“You did not enjoy yesterday?” Richard asked, stroking a hand over Amabel’s sturdy back.
“My nooning with you was lovely. Watching Wealtha order clerks and shopgirls around and dither over two blue fabrics that were equally flattering was a test of my good manners.”
“She is spoiled.” Wealtha was also an unwelcome topic at what should be another enjoyable midday meal tête-à-tête with Amabel. “Perhaps she ought to be sent to Mayfair after all. She’d learn something about her place in the greater world.”
Richard felt the change go through Amabel, a slight bracing, followed by a this-again sigh.
“You assume,” she said, “that Wealtha would come home a sadder, wiser young lady. She might return to the Glen having learned how to be truly mean rather than merely thoughtless. I don’t want to talk about Wealtha, don’t want to think about her.”
Richard grazed his thumb over the warmth of Amabel’s nape. That almost-angry note lurked in her words again.
“What would you rather discuss?”
She glowered up at him. “Enough talk.”
Amabel kissed him on the mouth as if he’d just come home from the wars and must soon return to them. Her overture was accompanied by a tightening of her embrace, such that her every contour was plastered against him, visiting upon Richard the realization that she wore jumps instead of stays.
“Amabel…” He gentled the kiss gradually, moving his hands slowly over her shoulders. “We have time. We need not rush.”
She made a sound of frustration, but ceded to his slower tempo, loosening her grip and easing against him.
What is all this ferocity in aid of? Though, as Richard learned the shape of her shoulder blades and the silky texture of her hair, he realized that what he sensed wasn’t simply ferocity, but rather, ferocity in combination with a lack of sophistication.
Amabel had been kissed—without skill. She’d doubtless taken advantage of the more relaxed vigilance of rural chaperones, sampled the wares of a few adoring swains, and decided against marrying any of them.
She’d apparently bedded one or two and declined the opportunity to spend a lifetime with any of her suitors.
And no wonder, if they went about their wooing like clueless schoolboys who had no care for a lady’s pleasure.
Richard experimented with a glancing caress to a generous breast. The result was a soft moan and a welcoming shift in Amabel’s posture. He obliged, arousal humming through him like harmony to Amabel’s melody.
He maneuvered her around beside the bed, until she was lying on her back, her legs over the side of the mattress. His hand went to his falls—the situation was workable—but Amabel chose then to twist her fingers in his hair and demand more kisses.
He made a decision that sorely disappointed his animal spirits, a choice rooted in chivalry and shrewdness. If the lady hadn’t been properly kissed by previous partners, she’d likely not been properly satisfied by them either.
He set about rectifying the oversight. By the time Amabel’s skirts were around her waist, and Richard was exploring the secret folds of her femininity, she’d gone quiet, her arms above her head, her cheeks flushed.
“You will allow me this,” he said, finding a rhythm with his caresses and the exact place to apply them. “You deserve this much at least, and you will not deny yourself.” Not deny him the delight of seeing her take her pleasure.
Amabel opened her eyes long enough to spare him a glance of what looked like bewilderment mixed with impatience, and then Richard applied a touch more pressure, and she was off, moving against his hand, arching her back, and fisting her fingers against the mattress.
Amabel in the throes of passion was a striking sight. She yielded to the delight, rode it out vigorously, and held his hand to her as the cataclysm eased, all without making a sound. When Richard would have sent her up on another flight of rapture, she stopped him by stilling his fingers.
“Not again, please.”
That was for her to say. He contented himself with languid kisses and fevered imaginings, until Amabel pushed herself up on her elbows and regarded him solemnly.
“Why can I barely keep my eyes open?”
“Because a nap is in order.” He shrugged out of his jacket, toed off his boots, and fetched the quilt from atop the cedar chest. “A nap and a cuddle.” Also some silent rejoicing.
Objective achieved, and may it be the first of many.
“I should take my boots off.” Amabel’s expression had a dazed quality, and she wasn’t removing her footwear.
Had Richard not known better, he’d have concluded she’d had a bit too much cordial and was taking pains not to let it show.
Which thought pleased him tremendously. “Allow me.” He unlaced her boots, was so bold as to untie her garters—plain linen, bless her—and rolled down her stockings. Amabel remained silent, eyes closed, breathing slow and regular.
The flush was fading from her countenance, leaving her in serene repose, legs still sprawled over the side of the mattress.
“Before you drift off, let’s get comfortable.”
“I am comfortable. If you see my dignity wandering about, tell it… tell it…”
“I will say you are not at home for the nonce.” Richard climbed onto the bed and situated his darling spoon-fashion against him, her back to his chest. “I love that lavender aroma. I associate the scent with my mama and with a house in order.”
Amabel laced her fingers with his and kissed his knuckles. She was soon fast asleep, though Richard was wide awake.
He had misspoken. He did enjoy the scent of lavender, and he did associate it with his mother. Her linen closets had been redolent of the aroma, and after her death, Richard had taken to keeping a lavender sachet in his pocket.
He did not love the scent, though. He loved Amabel Fielding, and if she thought he meant to frolic with her for a few weeks, then gallop south with a fond farewell, she was very much in error.
Mabel napped, and then she dissembled.
When she ought to have climbed from the bed and pretended that she knew exactly what came after whatever one called the sort of encounter she’d just shared with Richard, she instead kept her eyes closed and stayed snuggled against his warmth.
When had she last felt this secure and whole?
This happy in her physical being?
Ye capering caprines, the pleasure. The overwhelming, cascading, unfathomable pleasure, and Richard’s actions suggested the whole whirlwind could be summoned repeatedly.
Mabel’s body, humming like a plucked fiddle string, had rejoiced at the notion, but her courage had been unequal to the experience.
“You’re awake?” Richard kissed her ear, which tickled.
“Barely. I feel very much as if I’ve been unhorsed. I am somehow no longer in the saddle and instead am sitting on the ground. I have no idea how the change in venue has come about.”
“I have ideas.” He patted her bum. “I suspect they had best keep for another time, but I am curiously reluctant to leave this bed.”