Chapter Nineteen
The fire cast a soft-orange light about the bedchamber that flickered as the flames danced and crackled.
As she slipped into the bed, Cordelia let her gaze wander over the painting on the wall opposite.
The reflections of her candle in the glass frame obscured the details of the painting, but she had long since memorized the roses—every line, every stroke of the brush.
Today had reminded her of the evenings she’d spent with James in the Lyon’s Den: evenings of companionship when he’d spoken of his love of the countryside. Some evenings they had largely sat together in silence, comfortable merely being together, with no need to speak.
Most men visited whores for physical gratification and the chance to indulge in exerting power over a woman. But James had visited because he’d nobody else to talk to on matters other than the management of his estate, or Society gossip, and his quiet innocence had won her heart.
Though he was surrounded by peers, acquaintances, and servants, he was the loneliest man Cordelia had ever known.
Perhaps lonelier even than Cordelia herself.
At least she’d had Isidore, Puck, and her other friends at the Lyon’s Den—people to whom she could reveal her heart and from whom she could seek comfort and counsel.
James had nobody.
Except me.
But the man with whom she’d fallen in love had disappeared the night of their marriage, when he’d discovered that the bride he’d sold himself to in order to further his family’s prospects was the whore he visited at the Lyon’s Den.
That recognition had cracked the terrain between them, opening up a fissure like a jagged wound.
But today, by preparing a picnic for her, James had begun to heal that wound.
After sharing a slice of game pie left over from last night’s supper, washed down with Mrs. Vaughan’s lemonade, they’d spent the remainder of the afternoon seated on the picnic blanket, lulled by the musical notes of the waterfall.
There, they had settled into the companionable silence that only those completely at ease in each other’s company could endure without discomfort.
She caught sight of a shadow at the bottom of her door, then someone knocked.
“James?”
The door opened to reveal her husband, his skin glowing in the warm light of the fire.
Her mouth watered at the sight of him—the perfectly formed body that exuded the athleticism of the aristocrat who preferred the outdoor life, the muscles of his chest that nestled together in pairs, the dusting of blond hair on his chest that grew thicker lower down, and…
Her pulse quickened and she squeezed her thighs together to temper the flare of heat in her center.
Inexperienced in the bedchamber he might be, but he was ready for her. His swollen member jutted toward her, already glistening at the tip.
“Cordelia.” He spoke in a low growl that elicited a pulse of desire deep within her body.
She drew back the bedsheet and he approached.
“I find myself a little disappointed in my wife.”
Her stomach clenched with shame and she reached for the bedsheet to cover herself, but he raised his hand.
“Not so fast,” he said. “Do you not wish to know the cause of my disappointment?”
He took another step toward the bed.
“My wife is overdressed.”
She reached for her neckline to unlace her gown, and he leaped forward.
“No!” he said. “I wish to remove your gown.”
Cordelia froze.
“I-I mean,” he said, his voice wavering, “if you consent.”
Her heart ached at the shyness in his eyes, the fear of rejection. She slipped out of the bed and moved toward him, stopping when their bodies met. His hard member brushed against her stomach and he let out a low whimper.
“James,” she whispered, “tonight I shall consent to anything and everything you wish.”
He reached for her neckline and tugged at the laces, slowly unknotting them until her gown lay open, her chest exposed.
“Sweet heaven,” he muttered. “What am I to do?”
“James?”
He colored and averted his gaze, as if ashamed that he’d spoken aloud. She took his hand and lifted it to her breast.
“Ohh…”
He closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he squeezed her breast. Then he pulled her neckline fully open, and her nightgown slipped over her form to pool at her feet.
Cordelia’s skin tightened with a combination of want and shyness as his gaze wandered over her naked form. But how could she, a whore, deserve to feel shyness when she had bared her body to so many men?
Perhaps it was because when she lay with James, it meant more than a mere transaction. His regard of her mattered. He mattered.
His tongue flicked out, moistening his lips. Then he took her hand and returned her to the bed. She climbed on, then lay back as he joined her. Then she reached for his manhood and curled her fingers around it, relishing the silken skin and the virile hardness beneath.
He let out a low groan, shuddering as she tightened her grip and ran her hand along his length.
“Oh, sweet heaven, I…”
His voice trailed away as she caressed the tip of him with her thumb. Then he caught her wrist.
“No,” he said, his voice strained as if he gritted his teeth, and she swallowed her shame as tears pricked her eyes.
Tonight he wants to make love to his viscountess—not fuck his whore.
She winced at the profanity, even though it was spoken in her mind. “I-I’m sorry, James, I didn’t think—”
“Do not speak, my love,” he said, leaning over and placing a kiss on her lips. “Much as I relish your touch, tonight is not for you to give me pleasure. Tonight, I wish to give you pleasure.”
“Y-you do?”
“Yes, my dear one,” he said. “I fear I am not accomplished, so you may have to give me further instruction. Tell me how a man can give you pleasure.”
“I-I have not…” Her throat tightened and she suppressed a sob.
“Cordelia?” His brow furrowed. “Am I doing it wrong?”
“No, James,” she whispered. “It’s just… I don’t…” She turned her head away and closed her eyes. “No man has wanted to give me pleasure before.”
He stiffened, then caught her chin and turned her head back. “Look at me, Cordelia.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Look at me.”
She opened her eyes to see him staring at her, his eyes the color of midnight.
“You have naught to be sorry for,” he said. “I, however, am deeply sorry for the life that you have endured, for the love that has been denied you. But no more. I want to worship you. Do you think it might give you pleasure if I did?”
“I will take pleasure from whatever you wish to do,” she said. “If you take pleasure, then so will I. Listen to your body and what it needs and desires. Do you recall our first time?”
He nodded, then gently pushed her onto her back. “I pray that I may prove a worthy pupil.”
She tensed, anticipating his touch, and he leaned over her, his hair brushing against her chest. His eyes narrowed as if he contemplated what he must do.
Then his lips curved into a smile and he nodded.
He dipped his head and placed a kiss on her shoulder.
She caught her breath at the little pulse of longing elicited by his touch as his lips curved against her skin.
He placed another kiss on her shoulder, then traced a line of kisses along her collarbone. Flicking his tongue out, he moved toward her chest, until he reached her breasts. He nuzzled her with his nose, then inhaled.
“What sweet scent,” he whispered, his breath hot against her skin.
He placed a kiss on her skin, then with a low growl he clamped his mouth over her breast, drawing the nipple in.
She arched her back and cried out as a fizz of pleasure tore through her, settling in her center.
Each time he grazed her nipple with his teeth, the pleasure flared, deeper and more intense than she could ever have imagined.
Was this the pleasure to be had when a woman was in love?
James lifted his head, releasing her nipple, and her skin tightened at the rush of cold air on her skin.
“A-am I doing it right?”
“Oh yes,” she breathed.
“Good, for I find I take much pleasure from worshipping you. I wish to worship all of you.”
He kissed her belly, then shifted toward her center, where her body already ached for him. But this time, she felt neither fear nor shame at the slickness between her thighs, and she parted them in offering. He dipped his head lower and flicked his tongue along the mole on her right thigh.
Pleasure swelled within her, and she fisted the bedsheets, chasing the promise of ecstasy that rose on the horizon like a distant wave.
“Mmmm,” he said. “I find your scent intriguing. Sweet like honey, yet sharp, like Mrs. Vaughan’s lemonade.”
She suppressed a giggle, then cried out as he dipped his tongue between her curls. Then he moved slickly along her flesh and a surge of heat rippled through her center.
“Sweet heaven, James!”
“Is that good?” he growled.
“It’s… Oh!”
The tip of his tongue found the bud at her center. Pleasure surged in thick ripples and she bucked and writhed beneath him, chasing the crest of the wave.
Then her body disintegrated.
“James!”
Burying her hands in his thick blond locks, she thrust her hips upward while he continued to administer the sweet torture as each wave rippled through her body. When, at last, the wave receded, she lay back, boneless, a delicious warmth spreading through her.
The bed shifted as he stretched alongside her. Then he guided her head around and placed a kiss on her lips. The aroma of her own need intensified, together with the musky, woody scent of him.
“W-was that…?” The question unfinished, he raised his eyebrows.
“Do you need to ask, James?”
“Perhaps not, but I’d rather hear it from your own lips.”
“Well then,” she said, smiling. “I think, perhaps, we should try it again sometime, so I can make a proper assessment.”
The shyness and uncertainty returned to his eyes.
She took his hand and lifted it to her lips. “It was glorious.”
He grinned, and her heart was lost at the boyish pride in his eyes.
“Really?”
She nodded. “And now, Lord Bedford, it’s my turn to give you pleasure.”
“But tonight’s about you.”
“Did you enjoy giving me pleasure?” she said.
“Of course.”
“Then permit me to take equal enjoyment from reciprocating.”
She rolled him onto his back. His member jutted from his honey-colored curls, ready and eager, pulsing faintly with his heartbeat. She reached for it and a deep groan left his lips. Then she lowered her head and took him in her mouth.
“Oh, sweet lord Almighty!” he cried.
She curled her tongue around him while he whimpered and whispered her name. Then he placed his hands on her head, caressing her hair with gentle reverence while she continued to tend to him. When his body stiffened, she lifted her head, then crawled on top of him, parted her thighs, and waited.
He grew still, then, with a swift, sharp movement, she impaled herself on him.
“Aah!” he cried out. She lifted her body and thrust forward once more.
He lifted his hips to meet her thrusts, then, as she felt him surge within her, drove her body down one final time while he exploded inside her with a shout.
Her own body burst with life once more, then she threw her head back and shouted his name.
Their twin cries spiraled toward the heavens until she fell forward.
Sticky with sweat, their bodies fused together as if they were a single creature, and she closed her eyes, letting the hot tears she’d kept at bay drip onto his chest.
A hand brushed the tears aside.
“What troubles you?”
“Nothing,” she whispered. “I-I just never believed it could be so… That it could make my soul sing with joy. But it does with you, James. Only with you.”
“I know,” he whispered, his chest rising and falling. His heartbeat pulsed in her ear, and he caressed her hair, making soft crooning noises.
She let out a sigh, then drifted into a doze, dulled by the crackling of the fire and the gentle ticking of the mantel clock. Before sleep claimed her, she caught his whispered words.
“I love you, my Dahlia.”