Sweet Awakening (45 page)

“I thought you might sleep the day away,” he said.

“Is that why you left me?” Clare blurted out.

“I was afraid if I stayed, I would not have been able to keep myself from awakening you,” he replied.

“Oh,” whispered Clare.

“Did you miss me, Clare?”

She nodded and then took a deep breath as his hands, now lathered, began to soap her back, and then her breasts and belly. When he reached between her legs, she protested. “Giles, it is broad daylight. And I am in my bath!”

“And delightfully wet and pink, my dear. And slippery,” he added as his fingers parted her. “I can feel your own wetness, even with all this water.”

And so could Clare. At that moment, she would have pulled Giles in, had there been room.

“Have you ever been to Bath, Giles?" she murmured.

“Clare!” exclaimed Giles in a mock-injured tone. “At such a moment you are only interested in my travels?”

Clare caught his wrist and turned to face him. “I was only thinking, Giles, that we had something to learn from the Romans if we’d only paid attention. At least there was room for more than one in their baths.”

Giles chuckled. “You are a little sensualist, Clare.”

“I am sorry,” she said, embarrassed.

“Sorry? I am delighted. If I could only coax you out of your bath, I can assure you there is room on the bed, wife.”

Clare stood up, and Giles held her hand as she stepped out. He reached out to hold one shimmering breast in his hand. “You are like Venus, rising from the sea,” he whispered. “No, don’t put a towel around you,” he said as she started to cover herself up. He stood and let his dressing gown fall open.

“I think you need a bath, too,” she said with a glint in her eye.

“Perhaps I do, I can still smell that stench hanging around me.”

He stepped in and lowered himself into the warm water. Clare knelt beside the tub and ran her hand around the water, searching for the bar of soap Giles had dropped.

“Here it is,” she said.

“Oh, no it is not.”

“But it is hard and slippery, like soap, and keeps slipping out of my fingers,” she teased.

Giles groaned. “Oh, God, Clare, stop. I am not as tired as I was last night.”

“Then you are clean enough,” she laughed, pulling at his hand. “Now we are both wet and slippery.”

“Are you sure a British bath won’t hold two, Clare?” he asked, pulling her in on top of him.

“Giles! The water is splashing all over the floor!”

“It is good, clean water, Clare. And it will dry.”

Clare gave in to the delightful sensation as Giles’s manhood slipped and slid between her legs and against her belly. It was something like bobbing for apples, she thought, as she would try to position herself over him and he would slip away.

“You are torturing me, woman.”

Finally, Clare reached down and placed Giles just where she needed him to be and lowered herself gently onto him. He slid in, and she fit him like a glove. For a moment she sat still, enjoying the feeling of him filling and stretching her. Then he placed his hands on her hips and moved her gently.

Her mouth opened into a sweet “Oh,” and he pulled her down farther and thrust his tongue in as she lifted herself up and down on him.

“Yes, Clare, yes. It is your turn to ride,” he murmured when the kiss was done.

Giles didn’t notice the hardness of the tub against his back, nor Clare the splashing of the water over the sides as they rocked together. Just as Giles was about to climax, he slipped his hand between her thighs and lifting her just a little, filled her, and caressed her at the same time, so that they came together.

She sank down on him, gasping and sobbing into his shoulder while he stroked her hair.

After a moment he whispered into her ear: “Clare, I must get up, or I will turn into a corkscrew.”

She nodded against his shoulder but didn’t move.

“Clare, really, I am cramping up.”

“Where, Giles?” she asked, moving her hand down. He caught her wrist. “Oh, no, you are not going to start again.”

“I find the tub a perfect fit, Giles,” she teased.

“That is fine for you to say, my little pocket Venus. I am a good foot taller than you, and my leg is cramping, really, Claire.”

She climbed out as he stood up with a grimace on his face.

“It is not funny, woman,” he protested, hearing her giggle as he tried to flex his toes.

Clare picked up one of the towels and wrapped it around her. “Here, Giles, you will get chilled,” she said, and handed one to him.

Giles wrapped it around his waist, and walked up and down a few paces to work the cramp out of his leg.

Most of the water was out of the bath and on the floor, and Clare started mopping it up with the last towel.

“Leave it for the maids, Clare,” said Giles, smiling down at her.

“Oh, Giles, whatever will they think of us?”

“They will think that Lord and Lady Whitton have a true marriage at last,” declared Giles, pulling his wife up and over to the bed. They were still partly wet when they crawled under the covers, and Giles pulled his wife to him.

“Despite all that has happened, we are at last truly married.”

“Perhaps it is
because
of all that happened, Giles,” Clare replied, cuddling against him.

They lay back to front, and Giles’s chin rested on the top of her head and his arms were around her waist. They fell asleep that way and never heard Martha’s knock or saw her grin as she took in the puddled floor, before closing the door behind her, leaving them to their next sweet awakening.

For my daughter, Caledonia Kearns,

“my girl that I’m proud of”

Many thanks to my agent, Ruth Cohen, for her efforts on behalf of this book, and her moral support. I am also grateful to Hilary Ross, my editor, for letting me take this subject on.

Lenore Walker’s work on battered women who kill was a great resource.

Susan Amussen gave me historical perspective on domestic violence.

Mary Jo Putney gave me generous support and help in the revision of the manuscript.

In
The Fatal effects of Gambling exemplified in the Murder of Mr. Weare and the Trial and Fate of John Thurtell
I found the historical incident of the suit against Oldfield et al.

And to all battered women, I salute your courage. A percentage of the royalties from this book will be donated to the Jane Doe Fund.

Copyright © 1995 by Marjorie Farrell

Originally published by Topaz (ISBN 0451404920)

Electronically published in 2014 by Belgrave House/Regency

Reads

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part,

by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any

other means without permission of the publisher. For more

information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San

Francisco, CA 94117-4228

     
http://www.RegencyReads.com

     
Electronic sales: [email protected]

This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are

fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is

coincidental.