Regency Innocents (46 page)

It was slowly dawning on Captain Fawley that his wife was a complete innocent.

‘Did your mother never explain what went on in the marriage bed?'

‘Not exactly, no.'

He bit down on a savage oath. He had been so intent on rushing the ceremony through in complete secrecy that he had forgotten she might need to learn a thing or two from her mother before sharing a bed with a man. Only now did her mystified looks when he had spoken of dragging her to his bed make sense.

To his surprise, while he was wrestling with the concept of having to explain to a naïve virgin what a
man generally did with his wife, whilst repressing the overwhelming desire to just get on with it, she smiled, and shrugged off the blanket.

‘I suppose we will just have to keep each other warm, then, won't we? At least there is a fire in here.'

His mouth went dry at the sight of her in her borrowed nightwear. The bodice consisted of a few slivers of peach-coloured silk holding together panels of lace, which were strategically positioned to entice a man's gaze.

He gazed. And saw the skirt was split to her thigh, revealing tantalising glimpses of her pale slender legs with every tentative step she took towards him.

She hesitated in the act of climbing up into the bed, her face turning bright pink as he growled when the silk slithered from her bent leg in sinful invitation.

‘What is the matter?' she whispered. ‘Do I look dreadful in this gown?'

He saw the uncertainty in her face, the need for reassurance.

And something dark and bitter welled up within him.
She
was seeking reassurance from him, for the way
she
looked! Didn't she know she was perfect? Perfect face, perfect body, perfect skin. No man looking at her, in that seductive outfit, could fail to react as he was reacting at the sight of that bared thigh. He was rock hard. Sweating.

‘Take it off,' he growled.

She flinched back, an expression of shock on her face.

‘I said, take it off,' he repeated, as a fine tremor began to ripple through the blighted arm he had hoped to conceal from her sight by placing a pillow over the mangled stump where his hand ought to be.

‘You don't like it,' she said, shaking her head ruefully. Then, lifting her chin, added, ‘Nor do I.'

She kept her gaze fixed on his bare chest, as she reached for the ties that bound the wrapper over her breasts. He probably felt naked, and vulnerable, without the artificial limbs his servant had removed to make him comfortable for the night. In his mind, it probably seemed fair that she, too, should be stripped of some of her dignity.

She wondered if he was completely naked under the covers. A strange shiver went right through her at the thought of lying next to all that hair-roughened flesh. Her knees had gone weak, her heartbeat had fluttered when she had leaned up against him the night she had almost fainted. Being in such close proximity had affected her profoundly, even through her clothing and his. What would it be like with no barriers at all?

Her legs began to tremble as her heartbeat accelerated. Her fingers shook so much that she was convinced she would tear the delicate garment in her clumsy haste to divest herself of it.

Finally, as she stood completely naked before her husband, she drew the courage to look into his face. His expression was stark, unyielding—not at all welcoming as he flicked back the covers, indicating that it was time to get into the bed and join him.

‘Wait!' he said, just as she began to climb up on to the bed for the second time.

She paused, one knee already bent on the mattress, her hands splayed out to balance her. Had she misinterpreted his wishes? He certainly did not look at all
pleased to see her attempting to scramble in beside him. Slowly, she retreated and stood up, catching her lower lip between her teeth at the dreadful prospect that he was going to send her back to her room after all. He had tried, but when it came to the crunch, he just could not bear to have her near him. Just as he did not like anyone to see him eating, he probably hated anyone except his trusted manservant getting a good look at the full extent of his injuries.

She wanted to reach out and put her arms round him. But, remembering the reaction she had got from that village boy, she sensed it would only make him resent her all the more.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, wondering what on earth she ought to do.

‘Undo your plait,' he growled, settling back into the pillows.

‘My plait?' she echoed, at a loss to understand what could possibly lay behind that request.

‘You promised to obey me this afternoon, woman,' he growled. ‘Undo your plait. I want to see your hair down.'

Giving a mental shrug, she reached over her shoulder and undid the ribbon that held the ends of her hair in place. His eyes roamed her body as she worked the strands loose, the expression on his face growing fiercer by the second. By the time she had freed her hair, she was trembling from head to foot. He did not appear to like what he saw at all. She knew she must compare unfavourably with Susannah, the woman he wished was here with him tonight. She felt a strong urge to cover the breasts that were so much smaller than her friend's.
She felt gangly, and awkward and ashamed of the ribs and hipbones that were so clearly visible through her skin, instead of being covered by the feminine lushness of a woman in the peak of health. She was not sure how much more of this testing she could take before she ran back to her room and gave way to the tears of humiliation that were only an eyeblink away.

If she did not love him … if he did not need to reduce her to the level of exposure he was suffering, by having her invade his personal space …

‘You are shivering,' he finally observed. A wave of goose pimples had swept across her body, tightening her nipples into the hard peaks that also betokened arousal. He knew she was not aroused. She was just plain scared. Her eyes were huge in her pale face, fixed on him as though he were a wolf, and she Little Red Riding Hood.

He felt wolfish. He wanted to devour her. Claw at her and bite her, and hear her cry out as he sank into her soft warm flesh.

Yet he also wanted to wipe away that look of uncertainty, and replace it with yearning, and wonder and rapture.

She knew nothing of what went on between a man and a woman. How could she? She was standing there, completely naked, completely bemused by his request to take down her hair. She shifted her weight from the foot she had been favouring, stroking the sole over the arch of the other, chewing at her lower lip, like a little girl, completely unaware of what the sight of her naked body was doing to him.

Any man with a shred of decency would let her grow
accustomed to intimacy by gradual stages, he sighed. Not plunge her straight into the sort of torrid encounter he had planned to subject her to tonight.

‘Get into bed now,' he said, ashamed of himself for toying with her like this, ‘and I will warm you.'

‘Th … thank you,' she breathed, scrambling in beside him with alacrity, and pulling the covers up to her chin as she lay down. ‘I am all over goose bumps.'

‘I saw.' He put his arm about her waist, pulling her closer. ‘Is that better?'

‘Mmm …' She nodded, the top of her head bumping the underside of his chin. She kept her arms demurely by her sides, knowing he would not wish her to hug him, dearly though she wished to. But the entire length of her leg rested against his. He was warm, and hard and his skin was covered all over, it seemed, with coarse hair that made her want to rub herself against him—twine herself about him like a cat. Each breath he took, expanding his chest, brought him temporarily, tantalisingly closer to her upper body and made her yearn to roll on to her side, and press herself up against him, till there was not a single inch of air between their naked bodies. She wanted her breasts pressed against his chest, her legs entangled with his. She wanted the right to put her arms about him, and kiss the scars on his face, and, yes, the ones she had briefly glimpsed bubbling down the left side of his chest. She wanted to plunge her fingers into his overlong hair, while she kissed him with all the love she felt welling in her heart.

But she was so afraid he would repulse her.

He gritted his teeth, lying rigidly upon his back,
while he felt his naked young bride shivering with cold, and probably a large dose of trepidation, against his side. He did not know where to start. Not so long ago he had feared he would never want to lay with a woman again. Yet now he was experiencing a hunger so fierce he scarce knew how to hold it back. The things he wanted to do to this innocent young woman were so brutal they even shocked him. He gritted his teeth, knowing she needed a gentle introduction to a pastime she scarce knew existed. Not a clumsy, blundering cripple, who, even at his peak, had never known an innocent. His encounters, as a soldier, had been of the mercenary kind. Pleasurable enough for him, but not exactly good training for the polite coupling that he guessed ought to go on in a marriage bed.

She deserved far better than to marry a wreck like him. She had made it possible for him to have everything he had ever wanted. A home of his own, financial independence and revenge on the perfidious Lampton family.

And all she was getting in return was a bad-tempered cripple, who had scant idea how to initiate a virgin. Perhaps he ought to tell her to put her nightgown back on. If she was not naked … but then he imagined her getting out of bed, and bending over to retrieve that seductive confection of textures from the floor, raising her arms to slide it over her head … he would just want to rip it straight off her again.

He stifled a groan.

‘Is aught amiss?' she asked, peering up at the rigid lines of his throat.

‘No, nothing that need trouble you.' He sighed,
shifting so that no part of him quite touched any part of her any more. There was no way he could talk to her about what her marital duties would entail, not tonight. It was bad enough just thinking about it. If he tried to verbalise exactly what was going through his mind, he would end up wanting to give her a demonstration. And end up traumatising her, no doubt. For he was pretty sure he was not going to be able to take it slowly enough not to hurt her.

‘Go to sleep.'

There was a short pause. Then she said, in a very small voice, ‘May I kiss you goodnight?'

She must have felt him tense, because she added hastily, ‘My mother and father always used to kiss each other goodnight. And we are married now, so, should I not kiss you?'

‘Only if you really want to.' He was sure no woman could really want to kiss him. ‘You do not need to,' he said, suddenly angry with Deborah's need to do her duty, as she saw it. ‘It is not required.'

‘But I do want to,' she stunned him by saying. Raising herself on to one elbow, she looked down into his face, right into his eyes, adding uncertainly, ‘If you don't mind. It is what married people do, is it not?'

‘Part of it,' he grated, his heart breaking into a gallop as her hair brushed across his chest, and he thought of what else married people did. And people who were not married, either, when the urge took them.

He had arranged it so that she was lying on his left side, his injured side. But she did not think he would like her to kiss the scarred side of his face. So she leaned
across him, and placed a gentle kiss on his right cheek. As she did so, her breasts grazed across the hair-roughened surface of his chest. He sucked in a sharp breath.

‘What did I do wrong?'

His eyes were squeezed shut. ‘Nothing,' he grated. ‘Lie down. Lie down at once.'

Chastened, she did so.

And shifted away, until she was right on the very edge of the mattress. But he could feel the warmth emanating from her skin. Could hear her breathing. Shaky, uneven breaths, as though …

‘You are not crying, are you?'

‘Of course not!' came her muffled response.

He rolled on to his side, raised himself up on his injured arm and looked down into her face with concern.

‘Yes, you are …' he groaned ‘… and it is all my fault. I have been a complete b-beast today, have I not?'

‘N … no …'

‘Yes, I have. I know it.' When he thought back over the way he had treated her, he was amazed she had not given way to tears much sooner. What kind of man forced a timid young virgin to strip naked on her wedding night? Repulsed her so curtly after she had drawn the courage to place a shy kiss on his ravaged face?

‘Forgive me, Deborah?' He ran his thumb along the poor, bruised lower lip that she had been chewing more and more as the stresses of the day had piled up.

‘Of course I forgive you.' She sighed, looking up at him solemnly with tear-drenched eyes.

God, but he wanted to kiss her. If he could manage to be gentle, could she manage to stomach it? He
thought she, of all women, might really be brave enough. Look at what she had already endured at his hands. All day long she had borne the brunt of the emotions that churned inside him. And had stoically maintained a dignified mien.

He lowered his head and gently sucked her lower lip into his mouth, soothing it with his tongue.

He felt a tremor run through her, and broke the kiss, with a feeling of intense regret. He should have known she would recoil.

Are you afraid of me?' he asked ruefully, looking down into her face. Her hair had fanned out across the pillows, making her look … he gulped … incredibly alluring. He gritted his teeth as a fresh flood of desire surged through him. ‘You do not need to be. Though I don't suppose after today's performance you will believe me ….'

‘No!' she replied, as he made to shift away from her. ‘I am not afraid of you. Not at all. Only—' She broke off, and began chewing at her lower lip again.

‘What are you afraid of?'

‘That I might not please you,' she admitted, her eyes darting away from his.