Virgin Unwrapped (4 page)

“Robert,” she gasped.

The sound of his name on her lips was like a pull on his body, and he shifted, seeking a less distracting position.

She gasped in pain and he withdrew.

“The buttons on your breeches were pressing against me,” she whispered. “It hurt.”

“Then I will remove them,” he replied, expecting her shocked denial.

She said nothing.

Did she understand what she was offering to him? And could he last long enough to get the answers he wished from her? He must hope so. Now that the idea had presented itself, he could not seem to resist. He watched her as he set the quill aside and stripped the shirt over his head, casting it to the floor.

Her head tipped to the side and her gaze was both curious and admiring.

He dropped a hand to the buttons at his waist.

Her gaze followed it, and she held her breath in expectation.

He smiled at her and undid another button, then stepped back out of her range of vision.

And she rose as far as she could from the bed, craning her neck to see.

Proceeding was more than unwise. But it would claim her in a way that no other action could. At the very least he would show her what she was sacrificing by choosing another. He undid the last of the buttons, and let his trousers drop to the floor, stepping free of them and returning to the bed.

Other than a slight widening of the eyes, she gave no sign of what she might be thinking. And so he straddled her hips, letting his manhood settle between her legs, feeling the wetness of her body achingly close as he leaned forward and picked up his pen again.

He wrote in flowing strokes, up and down her arms and along her belly. Scraps of poetry, Shakespeare and Byron, anything he could think of. His hopes and dreams as well, that they could be together, that she could love him, and he could cherish her. He covered her belly with elegant script, and crossed her breasts with careful block printing. There was no ink to leave a mark, and the light pressure he used was not even enough to scratch the surface of her skin.

The feather had left her sensitive and the climax even more so. She was biting her lower lip and breathing through her teeth, eyes still closed, but tearless, crinkling at the corners as though she were about to smile. He watched as each touch of the pen drove her closer to the ultimate response and then paused, wiping the words away with his hand to prolong the inevitable.

“Why do you deny yourself this?” he asked softly. “I would give it to you every night of your life, if only you would let me.”

“And in daylight I would know that I had failed them again,” she whispered and he saw another tear.

“You parents?”

She nodded.

“How have you ever failed them?” he whispered back, his hand still on her body.

“When Mary died. It should have been me.” Her eyes opened suddenly, and she looked hopeless, frightened. “I was the strong one. But she was the one they loved. And now, she is gone. Nothing I can do will make up for that. Unless…perhaps…this time…”

“No.” He was losing her. With each thought, each word, she was remembering the reason she should not want him. “
You
are the one
I
love. No other.
You,
Anne Clairemont.”

“Robert.” She sighed his name again and he wrote it, with a flourish upon her belly, trailing letters down almost to her pelvis until she rocked her hips against his erection and gave a shudder of surprise.

He leaned forward again covering her, trapping himself between their bodies and arching his hips, grinding against her and feeling satisfaction only moments away. Then he kissed her, long and deep, enjoying the feel of her body like a pillow of silk beneath him, nipples peaking against the hair of his chest, and slender waist in his two hands. At some point he had dropped the pen and begun to stroke her with his fingers, making her purr like a kitten against his mouth. One of her hands had come untied but she had not noticed the fact, wrapping it unthinking around his shoulders to hold him to her.

He reached up and freed her other wrist then rose to kneel between her legs, spreading them wide, and gathering the bedclothes under her hips to tip her body up to receive him. With his thumbs he smoothed her own moisture around the opening of her body, stretching it to prepare her, bringing her back to the brink with careful touches. As the first tremors took her he leaned forward slowly, watching her eyes widen in shock and then close in relief as she accepted him.

Her climax continued as he thrust. The tight, virginal pressure on him was its own kind of torture, grabbing and holding, squeezing the life out of him, rendering everything else unimportant to the rush of his spirit leaving his body as it came into hers. It seemed to go on and on, as if he had never come before and his body could empty itself of a lifetime of need until he collapsed onto her spent.

They lay there for a moment. Then to his surprise, he heard what sounded almost like a giggle. But that could not be. Anne Clairemont was far too proper to laugh in such a way.

“Robert,” she whispered in his ear. “You have not fallen asleep, have you? Suddenly you are so still.”

“No, love,” he whispered back. “But I do not know if I can move. You have ruined me.”

“I did not,” she whispered again. “Do not say I hurt you.” It was clear that she was honestly worried by the thought.

He laughed softly back at her. “Not hurt, love. Merely rendered worthless to all women but you. You will have to have me now. For what other woman could want me, after what you have done?”

“Do not be silly,” she said back. “I do not think men can be ruined after something like this. I on the other hand…”

“You are the most perfect being on the planet,” he said. “I will not hear otherwise. If you doubt, then let me show you again.”

Anne woke to a world where everything had changed. It was Christmas Eve morning, always a time of expectation, when one felt on the cusp of a new world. It was the day after her engagement as well. Such a momentous step should have left some profound difference in her, although it hardly seemed real and had been largely forgotten in the wake of last night’s visit from Robert.

But this morning, he was gone, and the illusion was fading. There was a smudge of virgin’s blood upon the sheets of her bed. She saw the sly smile of the maid who’d noticed it, but said nothing. The girl assumed it was Joseph who had visited her, and that they had shared a night to celebrate their betrothal. Anyone who suspected would think it was almost proper, and rather romantic that the two who had stood together before the ballroom could not manage to keep away from each other when the crowds were gone.

Anne remembered the brief time alone with him and the awkwardness between them. When he had made the proposal, he had seemed as miserable as she had been. They had gone through the process as lifelessly as they would go their married life, and then shared a brief kiss that was utterly devoid of passion.

Then she thought of Robert with a shiver of delight. He’d stayed in her bed until almost dawn, holding her, kissing her and making love to her again and again. She had not imagined it might be like this, to lie with a man, and to feel as if nothing mattered in the world but the two of them.

But he had known. He’d come to her and rendered her helpless, even as he’d assured her that she had the power to put an end to it. But why would anyone want to stop such delicious torture? And he had chosen the one word he knew she could not speak. It was hard enough to say “Joseph” when she faced the man, without trying to coax that word from her lips when all she could think was
Robert, Robert, Robert.

She gripped the chair in front of her, remembering the moment of gentle restraint when all the control had slipped from her shoulders, leaving her helpless under him. It should have frightened or upset her, for she often felt powerless in the face of other’s demands. But even as he’d tied her hands, he’d freed her to do what she’d wanted, to receive pleasure she was obligated to refuse.

As she washed herself, she stared into the mirror at her body and was disappointed to see no evidence of what had occurred. The scratches of the quill on her body had been far too gentle to mark her. It should give her comfort. But today, she wished he had used ink so that she could see the words he did not say aloud.

She could think of several vile things he might have written, words that were as ugly as a branding. Though she did not know all of them, she was sure there were many terms for the sort of woman willing to sell herself to a man she did not love. It hardly mattered that she had a reason for it. The truth of her future was the same.

But when Robert had taken up the pen, he’d spoken with such gentleness and longing that she was sure he’d meant something else entirely. There would be sonnets. Maybe even prayers. The sweeping gestures he’d made might be a drawing. Perhaps it had been a vine, or a rose. In his own way, he had shown her his love.

And she would see him, again today.

But when she went down to the breakfast room, she remembered how things were meant to be, and her hopes fell. This morning, Joseph was managing to play the attentive fiancé, offering her the chair at his side and seeing that her cup was full and plate well supplied with dainties. Her parents were nearby, offering rare smiles of approval as she thanked him and spoke politely to the most honored guest seated on her other side.

Robert was well down the table, making conversation with Barbara Lampett. It was nothing, she was sure. He was only ignoring Anne to preserve her reputation. All the same, it made her want to scream the truth out loud, and demand that he destroy her in front of Joseph, his guests, and especially her parents. She wanted to be stripped bare of artifice, just as he had done last night when he’d removed her shift.

He had said before that he would not be the one to speak. It was up to her to break the engagement, so that they might be together. She glanced around the table at Joseph’s guests. He had worked hard to bring them and their money to the North, hoping that they would invest in the mill, just as Robert had. He had reminded her before their arrival that the week must be flawless. And she knew her part in it: his marriage to a proper lady was to be his crowning success and his proof to the upper classes that he was more than a mere tradesman.

She did not dare speak out now. To cry off would destroy the illusion. She forced a smile and took a sip of her tea. There would be time. Very soon. Twelfth Night at the latest. The moment the guests had departed, when the last carriage had reached the end of the drive, she would tell him that they could not be together.

Just not now.

The meal was breaking up, with little clumps of people discussing what the day’s activities might be. And poor, awkward Barbara Lampett was doing her best to escape the table, muttering that she must find a ride back to the village so that she might see to her parents. Joseph had gone to arrange for her transport. If a few more people finished their meals, she might have a moment or two with Robert.

But before that could happen he shot her a puzzled glare and pushed away from the table with a loud scraping of his chair. Then he almost bolted for the hall as though he could not stand to be alone with her.

She waited for only a few moments to give the faintest illusion of propriety before excusing herself from the table and hurrying down the hall after him.

“Robert,” she said softly.

Instead of looking at her with a smile, he looked immediately around to be sure that she had not been overheard. It was a small and natural act. Yet it reminded her of the risks they took in talking at all. Then, rather than answering, he turned and chose the hall toward the ballroom, away from the most common and popular rooms of the house.

She followed him without another thought.

When he was sure they would not be interrupted, he turned and said, “Until you have ended your engagement, we should not meet like this during the day.”

“But you plan to visit me at night?” she demanded. For though she wished he would, it was all the more wrong to lie with a man who did not wish to acknowledge her outside of the bedroom.

His expression seemed to melt, going quickly from frustration to confusion, to a soft, loving resignation. “To be with you at all is madness. When you are alone with me, I know your feelings. But to watch you seated at another man’s side? Do you know how that tears at me?”

“What am I to do?” she said, wishing she did not know the answer.

“Tell him the truth. I cannot. It would ruin you. And he will not break the engagement. He feels honor bound to continue with it, for your sake. But you have the power to end this. You need not be afraid. It is not a fall from grace if there is someone standing ready to catch you.”

“My parents would be distraught,” she said, willing him to understand. “And Joseph would be humiliated in front of his guests.”

“But you will be happy.”

“Happy without them? Because they will turn their backs on me at Christmas. I will be as dead as Mary to them.”

Robert shook his head in disgust. “You are dead to them now. But your sister seems to be very much alive. She must have been very cruel to wish such a fate on you.”

“Certainly not. She was the sweetest, kindest, most generous girl in the world.”

“Then she would have wanted you to be happy,” he said simply. “I promise I will give you that happiness. Go now and tell Stratford the charade is over. If you do not, then I must leave this house until you do. For I cannot bear another moment of lying about my love for you.”

“No.” She clung to his arm. “If you leave, you will take what little strength I have with you.”

“Then run away with me. We will both go.”

“I cannot. After Christmas, perhaps. Give me but a few days.”

“It is not as if I am offering you dishonor,” he said patiently. “Quite the opposite. We would be married by special license. My family would welcome you as their own. They are kind and generous, and will be happy for us. I have money. Not as much as Stratford, but more than enough so you might live in comfort. You will have anything you wish for.”

“Except my family,” she reminded him.

“Is that truly so important?”

It should not be. When had she ever been their favorite? And when had her needs mattered more than theirs? “I am all they have,” she said at last, hoping that he could understand.

“You have me,” he said, and his eyes blazed. Her body answered the look with its own heat. “You always will. But I cannot stay here. Especially not after last night. You chose him, publicly. Then, you took me into your bed.”

“I could not deny you,” she argued.

“And you cannot have us both. Allow me some pride at least. Either break from him, or let me go until you do. I will not stay here. For I cannot stay away from you. If it is discovered it will disgrace us both.”

“I will not let you go.” And then, she did something foolish, displaying her desperation. She threw her arms about his neck and kissed him, dragging him back into a curtained alcove beside the ballroom doors. Despite his objections, he yielded, and kissed her in return.

“Don’t leave me,” she buried her face against his coat, twining her arms around his neck. “I cannot go on without you.”

Robert laughed, and it was a cold, hollow sound against the stone of the alcove walls. “You would leave me no honor at all, would you? If you do not end this engagement, do you expect me to stand quietly by while you marry another? That is likely to end with me cuckolding my best friend.”

“It will be over soon,” she whispered back. “But I cannot cry off just yet. I simply cannot. It would kill my parents. Have I not brought enough grief upon them?”

“What have you ever done to them?” he asked.

“I lived,” she said. “It was enough.”

Robert took her hand, and looked seriously into her eyes. “The grief has gone on far too long. It is a part of them, now. Nothing you do is likely to change that. Do you want to end up as they are?”

“No,” she admitted.

“Then marry me,” he whispered. “We could run away tonight.”

She moaned with all the frustration and anguish in her heart. “Could you not wait a few days, until I make a graceful way out of this?”

“I am tired of waiting.”

She needed more time. What could she do to make him change his mind? She sank to the bench that was set into the wall beside him and pressed her face into his stomach and fumbled for the buttons that closed his trousers. He reached for her hands to stay her, but she evaded them, thrusting fingers into the opening she’d made and seizing him, staring up into his eyes as she stroked. “You cannot leave me. Please. Tell me what you wish, and I will give it to you.”

“I wish to marry you,” he said softly. “So that we could be together.”

It was not what she wanted to hear. So she blotted it out, closing her eyes and tightening her fingers. “And we will be. In time. But what do you want, right now?”

“I will take nothing more from you,” he said through gritted teeth, as though he were trying to ignore the feel of her hand, moving upon him. “I should not have last night. It was wrong. Look at where it has got us.”

“Now you are the one who is too frightened to act,” she said. It was both exhilarating and terrifying to be here, alone with him, like this. “It was right. You know it was. You felt what I felt. We are meant to be together.” She spoke softly, slowly, and watched words and actions have their effect upon him. He relaxed, leaning his back into the wall; eyes closed head back, breathing slowly.

She undid another button and watched in the dim light as he sprang forth, ready and eager for her touch. She stroked the length of him, her hand gliding over the head of him and down the smooth shaft. “Do not spout words about your honor,” she whispered. “It is not a thing I can understand. For a woman, honor means having to deny oneself the pleasure I feel, when I am with you. The pleasure you are feeling now.” She tightened her hand around him and he lurched away from the wall and put his hand on her shoulder to steady himself before settling back again.

“If honor means we cannot be together, then it is useless to me. You are talking of nothing more than pride. But I have none of that. It is my family’s pride that has brought me to this unhappy pass. Stay, Robert. And no matter what might happen, I will be your mistress, your lover, your everything.”

She crooned the words and sank to her knees before him, touching him with her lips. Above her, she heard the careful breaths he took, as though each one was a struggle.

So she willed them to follow the beat of her own heart, kissing him harder, closing her mouth around the tip of him to bind him to her with her ardor. He would not leave. After today, he would not be able to. His hand was grasping and flexing on her shoulder as though he’d forgotten he held her and she increased the pace of her stroking hand to match, sucking upon him and trying to use her tongue as he had done for her.

Suddenly he pushed her away and fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief. She clasped her hands over his as he lost control and spilled his seed into the cloth.

“Anne,” he said in a ragged voice.

“Robert.” She rose and held him, leaning her face against his lapel as he slumped against the wall. “I love you,” she whispered. “A few more days. A week. A month. Soon, we will be together. But you must not leave.”

He seemed almost ready to agree. She could swear she saw the beginnings of a weak nod. Then their hiding place was filled with light as the curtain drew back.

Barbara Lampett’s face was shocked pink at the sight of them. Anne wondered what, if anything, she had seen, how long she had been standing there, and whether she’d heard their muffled groans.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I had no idea…” She turned quickly, shielding her eyes.

Robert stepped in front of her, pulling composure from thin air with a quiet curse. Then he said, “I am sorry you were a witness to my disgraceful behavior, Miss Lampett. And that you had to experience it, Miss Clairemont.”