When She Said I Do (6 page)

Chills swept her as her nipples hardened further in the cool air and her nerves, stimulated by his touch, sent gooseflesh rising all over her body.

Suddenly the front of her felt warmer. He’d stepped closer. He moved so soundlessly, though he limped so badly.

“Are you afraid?”

No. Yes.
Then, nevertheless,
no.
She shook her head.

“I will not harm you.”

She nodded.

“Put your hands behind your back once more.”

She obeyed. He moved behind her. Warm palms came down upon her shoulders, then slid down her arms to her elbows. He pulled them back, as he had the night before, making her back arch and her breasts thrust forward, high and pointed.

Was she facing the mirror this time? She rather thought so, for he remained behind her, yet she could hear his breath deepen. He gazed at her for a long time.

Then he released her arms. Slowly, she let her posture relax a bit, though she kept her bosom high … for his pleasure?

I like that he wants to look at me.

She ought to have felt shamefully exposed, yet what was the use of shame? Her husband liked to look at her. Surely that was rather the point of marriage? All within was sanctioned, permissible.

Enjoyable?

So far.

“Kneel.”

Jolted, she hesitated. Then, slowly, she bent her knees until she could drop more or less gracefully to them, keeping her hands behind her back.

She was closer to the fire now and she felt the warmth ease the tight sensitivity of her aroused skin.

His large hand came to rest upon her head. Slowly, his fingers moved through her hair, stroking and combing, digging great fistfuls and then letting the strands slide free.

“You do not resist.”

Callie hesitated, not sure if he wished a response. Slowly she shook her head no.

“How far does your obedience go, I wonder?”

She remained quiet. There was something in his voice now … a curiosity and a … threat? Suddenly she knew he wished to find her limit. She lifted her chin.
I’m rather interested in finding that out myself.

Yes, she was interested in finding out what this man knew about her body that she did not. What did he know about the longings of her skin and her nipples and the hot wet place between her thighs? More than she did, certainly.

So she waited for him to press further in his curiosity. She supposed she would know when he’d discovered the line of “too far.” At the moment, she felt liberated by her willingness to experiment. Liberated by the wedding ceremony and the fact that her family was on its way back to London. Liberated by the knowledge that she could do anything she pleased here in this fine house, in this fine room, with this man, and then someday soon she could leave it behind her.

This was her only chance to feel this. And she wished to miss not a single thing.

Chapter 5

When Mr. Porter commanded Callie to get on all fours, she did it fluidly, instantly, pleased with her own shocking willingness, pleased at his roughened voice, aware that her breasts swung and her bottom rose in the air and pleased that she knew he liked what he saw.

He moved behind her then and knelt. His clothed knee slid between her bare calves and she was forced to spread her knees apart. His other knee joined the first. She knelt wide, exposed, interested and a bit shy about it, but not yet alarmed.

He wrapped big hands around her hips, like before. Yes, that was what she’d wanted. He pulled her back against his body for a moment, providing her mind with all sorts of images for later consideration.

Then his hands slid back, over her bottom and down. His hot palm covered her dampest place. She felt the urge to press down upon that hand, but it moved on too quickly. As he brought his fingers drifting back from there, he stroked a fingertip over her anus.

Callie jerked in response, and heat flooded her face, shattering her bemused serenity with hot embarrassment. What?
There?

My goodness.

Then his hands slid up once more, over her hips, moving up her sides, dipping beneath to pass quickly over her breasts, then rising up her arms and shoulders, and digging once more into her hair. This time he wrapped his fists in her long hair, pulling her back against him, pulling on the reins of her tangled hair.

“I wonder … so willing…”

Then, suddenly, his arms wrapped about her waist and she felt herself lifted up off the carpet. In less than a second, he had her flat on her back before the fire. She almost opened her eyes in surprise, but he covered them with his hand quickly.

“Keep them closed.”

He slid his hands over her once more, his touch less detached, more urgent.

Callie felt him watching her face, waiting for her to respond, to cringe away. So instead she lay open and relaxed, allowing his touch as he ran his hard rough palms over her belly, her thighs, her breasts and shoulders. He parted her thighs and looked at her. She turned her face away slightly, but she did not resist, although it was possible she blushed, and not just from the heat of the coals.

Ren pushed his bride until he thought he could bear no more and still she did not stiffen in resistance, she did not push his hands away, she did not fight him in the slightest.

One had to admire the purity of her determination. She truly wished to return to her family as soon as possible. Surely she must be relieved by the fact that he’d made sure she need not look upon him.

Was it someone else she pictured behind her closed lids? That would explain her dreamy compliance. He could hardly resent it if it were so. A man like him had no right to this tender sweet flesh.

The thought made him take his hands to her again, sweeping them over her, taking every inch of her into his memory for longer, colder nights ahead.

A man such as he with a woman such as she …

He’d thought her pretty in the dark last night. He’d thought her pleasing in the light of day. Now, spread out before him like a feast for his starved, aching eyes, she looked like a long-limbed ivory goddess, with her tawny curls spilling over the carpet and her long amber lashes lying on faintly freckled cheeks.

What would it be like to have a woman like this love him—willingly, without payment, without coercion, without her eyes closed?

He would never know.

“Good night, Mrs. Porter.”

Callie could not have been more astonished when she felt Mr. Porter leave her side, heard his footsteps stride away, heard her bedchamber door shut behind him … heard the silence of her chamber echoing in her ears.

She opened her eyes. He’d left her, trembling, thighs damp with unfulfilled longing, staring after him with fury and frustration.

He’d treated her like the untried virgin that she was.

Bastard.

*   *   *

Far southeast of the Cotswolds, a man sat in a London gambling hell, toying idly with a deck of cards. Afternoon sunlight slanted into the room through high rounded windows, turning the carpet from nighttime plush to daytime shabby and causing dust motes to glint and dance in the air.

Another man entered, just as tall and dignified as the first, if a bit less relaxed.

The first gentleman looked up. “You again.”

The second gentleman drew out a chair and sat. Permission was neither asked nor granted. “He has married.”

The first gentleman lifted a brow, arched over a silvery gray eye. “Married? I had no idea there was an engagement.”

The second gentleman, whose blue eyes warmed a room rather than chilled it, leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “No engagement. Met her, compromised her, dueled her brother, and then married her, in less than twenty-four hours.”

“Impulsive bloke.”

The second gentleman ran a hand through none-too-tidy black hair. His brow furrowed with worry. “No, he isn’t. Ever. He maintains a very low profile, is rarely seen about, and keeps no society whatsoever.”

“And this makes you suspicious.”

The second gentleman shot the first gentleman a wary look. “Of her? Entirely. Of him? Well…”

The moment of hesitation lasted a bit too long. “You swore he would cause no further problems.” The gentleman with the chilling eyes sent his cards out onto the crimson felt of the table in a perfect fan. Then he stood. “I don’t like alarming developments. We shall have to see about this strange departure from the norm. And this mysterious bride.”

The second gentleman moved as if to protest, then drew a long breath instead. “It is, of course, your call.”

The first gentleman began to walk away, then turned to look back over one broad shoulder. “How generous of you to state the obvious.”

The second gentleman shook his head. “Supercilious aristocrat,” he muttered under his breath.

“And you’re a chimney sweep with delusions of standing.” The first gentleman did not turn again. “Go home, Simon. This is my club now. My men. My cards. My game.”

“Dalton, this girl may not be a playing piece in the game. Sometimes a girl is just a girl.”

“Perhaps. And perhaps not.”

“What will you do, then?”

Dalton’s jaw tightened. “You of all people ask me that? You know perfectly well that we exist outside the boundaries of law. We exist so that the dear people of Britannia need not sully their hands with the dirty business of national security. You cannot tell me that you never ordered an assassination when you held my post.”

Simon looked down at his hands.

Dalton sighed. “I hardly ride about England ordering the deaths of young women, Simon. But we do all this so no one else has to.”

Simon nodded. “I know. Right now I’m ever so glad that it is you and not I.”

Dalton gave a resigned snort. “Thank you.”

Simon turned, draping an elbow over the back of the chair. “Oh, by the way, Dalton, Milady wanted me to tell you to tell your lady that she will take another kitten in any case.”

Dalton, his dignified exit now in ruins, shrugged and nodded. “I’ll let her know. I suppose we’re all dining together again tonight?”

Simon waved a surrendering hand. “I go where I’m told, most happily.”

Dalton pursed his lips. “Hmm.” However, he didn’t argue the statement. He, also, tended toward the slavish adoration of his bride. “Tonight, then.”

Simon nodded crisply. “Try not to murder any little girls before then.”

*   *   *

On the other side of the city, in a rambling, shabby house whose last shred of elegance hailed from another era—rather, several eras ago—a great deal of clamor and upset rang through the extensive network of halls.

Atalanta Worthington, last and smallest of the Worthington offspring, crawled beneath the easel that held her mother’s latest rendering of
Shakespeare with Piglet
and tried to inspire her physical body into invisibility while the argument raged above her head.

It wasn’t that she was banned from such “open forums” as her father called them. In fact, she’d been included since she was old enough to perform the thumbs-up or-down gesture of the Roman audience, which Lycurgus, or some such fellow, declared the original form of democracy. Archie Worthington was a great proponent of democracy. Even infancy had not excused little Attie from performing her family duty by voting.

It was only that family discussions seemed to be so much more intriguingly fervent when Attie wasn’t present. So she sat with her bent knees tucked up beneath her skirts and willed herself to look like a potted plant.

With ears.

“I should never have allowed it!
You
should never have allowed it!”

That was Dade. He looked very fine, striding back and forth over the paint-spattered sitting room carpet with a scowl on his face. In Attie’s opinion, Dade was the best-looking of her many brothers, although Castor and Pollux claimed that they, being identical twins, were twice as handsome as the rest.

“I can’t believe she married without me there! I am her sister!”

Attie scowled at lovely Elektra. Ellie made it sound as if she were Callie’s
only
sister! Ellie was just jealous that Callie wed before her. Everyone in the family had assumed that Ellie would be the first, because she was the prettiest and because she was so hell-bent on the notion.

Attie liked the term “hell-bent.” She was allowed to use all sorts of words that made other people—people not Worthingtons—gaze at her with startled alarm. She knew all the proper Latin terms for the human body, at least the female one. Mama—who preferred to be called “Iris” by her children, though none of them complied—had declared it perfectly obvious that a person ought to know their own parts. “’Tis your carriage, Atalanta. You ought to know how to drive it.”

Cas and Poll, never ones to let Ellie flail about in theatrics for long, decided to pester Dade about the duel itself.

“So you never pulled your own trigger?”

“Not even a little bit?”

“Not very brotherly of you.”

“Not at all. One would think—”

“—That you didn’t care a whit—”

“For your own sister’s well-being!”

“The fellow could be a madman!”

“He sounds like a madman to me.”

“Living in that dank, dark house—”

“God knows what he’s up to in there!”

“Enough!” Dade spun about to face the twins, his hands clenched in fists until his knuckles went white. “Callie made up her own mind, as she always does!”

Cas grunted, nodding. Poll smiled angelically. “We know. We just wanted to make sure you did.”

Iris raised a languid hand. As usual, a paint-smeared handkerchief trailed from the wristband of her sleeve. “Daedalus, darling! Just because he was a rather unusual fellow—one does wonder at the lack of candles, to be sure—is no reason to assume he isn’t perfectly wonderful in his own way.”

Archie nodded sagely. “True, true. The greatest minds of history were all a bit eccentric, in their way. I myself have been called ‘odd’ on occasion!” Archie smiled at that bit of nonsense.

Attie laid her cheek sideways upon her knees and contemplated her father with great fondness and no illusions. Papa was as mad as a hatter. Everyone knew it except for him. But he was an affectionate sort of papa, the kind who remembered that she was very fond of butterscotch drops and books about ancient queens and bloodthirsty chess matches that lasted for days.