Chapter Eight #2
I could stick to the coach-accident story. But I suppose that doesn’t exactly explain the burn and the splotches of blood either.
“Whatever has happened to me,” I say, softly but firmly, “I swear on my mother’s grave that it was not my husband.” I pause before realizing I should add, “Nor are we in any sort of trouble that would land us in a jail. I am fine. Happily married … and under my husband’s protection.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widen. “Oh! Yes. I am sorry, madame. Forgive my presumption.”
I only smile. “I appreciate the concern, but I am beyond the reach of the person who harmed me.”
Which is, except for those handprints, true, and I have no wish to be beyond the reach of the person who made those.
“Your husband seems most eager to see you properly attired,” she says, her own voice softening. “That is generous of him.”
“Our leave-taking was rushed, I fear. Now I need to be sure he isn’t too generous in his attempts to make up for it.”
She smiles. “There is nothing wrong with a magnanimous husband.”
I might grin a little too naughtily at that. “There is not.”
She sputters a laugh. “Indeed. All right then. I shall mind my own business, trust that you are well, and see you outfitted as best we can manage.” Her head tilts, that smile lingering. “I do have some undergarments you might like. For your honeymoon trousseau.”
“He seems to prefer—” I stop before I go too far, but she laughs softly.
“Prefers you without them? I imagine he does. No woman would wish a husband who preferred to see her fully dressed. However, there is some … advantage to pretty underthings, if I am not being too bold, madame. It allows a man to admire while imagining…”
I grin. “Taking them off.”
“Indeed.”
“If you have something, I will happily take it. I would prefer to pay out of my own purse, but I have nothing at the moment, so it must go on our bill and I could not take anything too expensive.”
“I will get what you need, and your husband will never notice the cost.”
When I step out in the first fancier gown option, Bishop gives me a look that makes me ask the seamstress whether I can show him the second gown alone. She says to take my time—she’ll gather my new undergarments from the back.
I step away from the screen, and Bishop slowly pushes to his feet. He stands back, and I swirl. When I stop, he’s right there, having covered the distance between us. His gaze falls on my bosom, only about a third covered by the deep neckline, and he growls, low in his throat.
He’d commissioned my wardrobe at Trevelyan himself, and he’d had extra fabric added to make the necklines so high they’d been unfashionably ridiculous.
That may have smacked of prudery. It was not.
It was protection against the unwanted attention of wolves accustomed to openly admiring women’s bodies.
“Does that growl signify appreciation?” I say. “Or are you considering asking the poor lady to affix extra fabric to this one, too?”
“Both,” he says. “It is the worst quandary. Do I show off my bride and all her bounteous assets? Or do I keep them for myself?”
I clear my throat.
“Yes, yes,” he says. “The choice is yours, as it is your body, but you asked my opinion, and if you do not wish to hear how selfish it is, do not ask.”
I kiss him lightly on the lips. “I’m teasing you.”
His gaze drops again. “I see that.”
I laugh softly. “You know what I mean. Ultimately, I’ll decide, but I do find your quandary…” I run a finger down his chest. “Delightful. Which is wrong. I shouldn’t take such pleasure in your … discomfort.” I slide my hand down to the front of his trousers and squeeze the hard bulge there.
His growl comes again, rougher now. “Where is the seamstress?”
“Only in the back rooms. Not far enough away.” I unzip his trousers and slide my hand inside, fingers wrapping around him.
“Yet you persevere,” he says.
“Should I stop?”
“An observation, not a complaint.”
I stroke his cock and when I tug it from his trousers, his breath catches.
“Tell me to stop,” I whisper against his ear.
His gaze shoots to the dressing screen, concealing us from the back rooms.
I tickle my fingers along his shaft. “Say the word.”
“I can hear anyone approach.”
“You’ll need to pay attention to the front door as well. Can you manage that?”
He groans as I stroke him. Then I move closer, the folds of my gown hiding my hand.
“There,” I whisper. “No one can see, so even if we are interrupted, I can finish.”
“You are such a—” He bites off the words, and I laugh.
“One day you are going to complete that thought,” I say.
“One day I will not be able to help myself.”
“Oh, a challenge? What can I do to make you complete it? Pleasuring you in a seamstress’s shop isn’t enough. Perhaps it’s the way I’m pleasuring you. What if I got down on my knees—”
He cuts me off with a kiss, pushing against me as I stroke him. His hand rises to my neckline and, before I realize what he’s doing, he’s tugged down the dress and the corset, enough that one breast pops free, the cool air of the shop making me gasp.
He cups my breast, lifting it from its trappings, and my gaze slides to the shop door.
“There’s a window,” I whisper.
“I know.”
I nibble my lower lip, moaning as his fingers tweak my nipple. The window is filled with dresses, and I can barely make out light beyond, but I’m keenly aware that we are not entirely hidden.
“Someone could see,” I say. “If they peer through the glass.”
“Then you should probably tell me to stop.” His lips lower to mine, hovering there. “But you won’t.”
I whimper, and he groans, pushing against me.
“Wanton little…” As usual, he doesn’t finish, but that’s enough, making me gasp. I do feel wanton, and he’s right—I won’t tell him to stop. But he’s not telling me to stop either as I stroke him, his breath coming faster.
His free hand moves to my other breast, and again, a deft tug and it’s free. He puts his hands under my breasts and lifts them as he moves back, not enough to break my hold, as I keep stroking, my grip tightening.
“Gods, you are beautiful,” he says. Then he grabs my skirts and lifts them to my waist and pushes me back against a table.
“Tell me to stop,” he says.
I meet his gaze. “Never.”
He pushes my skirts out of the way, and I think this is how I’m going to lose my virginity, thrust back against a table in a seamstress shop, and I don’t care. I feel his cock between my thighs, and I start to spread my legs, and he gives a low, delicious chuckle.
“You would, wouldn’t you?” he murmurs.
“Absolutely.”
He shudders, his eyes dark with desire, but he presses my thighs together, and thrusts between them instead, and when I wriggle, he gives a ragged laugh.
“None of that,” he says.
“I’m just changing position.” I reach between my legs and take hold of him, and he shudders again, with a low growl that edges into a whimper, and I know if I took him into me, he wouldn’t be able to refuse, not in this moment.
But I only press the length of him firmly against me and then rub along it, my eyes closing in pleasure.
“Of course,” he murmurs. “How selfish of me. That is much…” A groan. “Much better.”
He thrusts, and the friction makes me bite my lip to keep from crying out.
I bury my face against his shoulder, and he whispers in my ear, telling me I’m wanton and bold and perfect, telling me what he’d like to do to me here, on this table, forget who might be watching, because I’m his and he’ll take me as he likes, and then we’re both reaching our crescendo, mouths against each other to keep quiet.
Afterward, we hug and whisper and shudder and then pull apart, and he quickly finds a stray bit of cloth and gently cleans me up before wrapping that cloth in another and stuffing them into his pocket.
“Well, that saved ruining a clean pair of trousers,” I say, and he laughs and kisses me.
“You are a marvel, Mrs. Daniels.”
I shake my head, but only kiss him back and then let him help me get presentable again before we call the poor seamstress back.