When She Said I Do (8 page)

Although only a small portion of her back had needed assistance, Mr. Porter now used both hands to stroke the salt scrub over her entire back, from her shoulders down to where the water met the middle of her back. In the silence, the single drops of water falling from his hands sounded through the room like the ringing of a bell. Callie tried to breathe evenly, but her nakedness and this strange man—her husband!—looming over her made her heart beat at a panicked speed. Her breathing soon matched it.

Behind her closed lids, she could not help but replay last night’s erotic scene. Naked in the candlelight, the dark sinister shape of him looming over her, the feeling of his large hands on her chilled skin …

Her nipples turned to diamonds, and without realizing it, she began to lean into his touch. His hands slid to cup her shoulders, then stroked slowly down her arms. Callie let her head fall to one side, inviting him onward.

Cleansed of salt by the water, his hot palms slid back up her arms to travel over her shoulders to her neck. For several long moments, his fingers moved in delicious massaging circles over the tension there, tension that had lived there since she turned sixteen and took on the running of Worthington House. Surprisingly, her eyes dampened in gratitude for that small attention and she let out a long, sighing breath as her body surrendered to his touch.

How wonderful. When had she last felt tended, cosseted? As a child perhaps? Sometime before Castor and Pollux were born, surely. Twins were bound to upset any family, and her brothers, darling wicked charmers that they were, had continued to cause havoc ever since.

Havoc that now had nothing to do with her. The distance from her family regained a little of its glory at that thought. This manor in the Cotswolds was a place of quiet and possibly even serenity—

All thoughts of serenity abruptly vanished when Mr. Porter’s hot hands slid down to cover her breasts.

Ren’s eyes closed in pleasure at the feel of her full breasts in his hands. God, she was sweet, so soft and silken. He was charmed by the tiny damp curls behind her ears, by the delicate point of her shoulder, by the line of her spine as it led his gaze to the deliciously curved buttocks beneath the water—water that, without soap, hid not a single womanly thing.

But mostly, he was fascinated by her delicious breasts.

He’d always thought he had a preference for short brunettes with large eyes, not tawny-haired busty goddesses. Apparently he was more flexible in his preferences than he’d thought.

When he’d been tantalized out of hiding and into the kitchens by the mouthwatering scent of baking, he’d not been prepared for the astounding tub of sweets that awaited his gaze.

Calliope. His wife.

His wife, naked and soaking wet, her pale skin shimmering like polished opal in the daylight that poured into the kitchen. Long pale legs extended into the air as elegant hands rubbed them pink with vigor. Her hair, neither blond nor quite brown, ran in wet rivers down a lean, graceful naked back.

And, oh, yes, best of all—firm, full breasts, sweetly rounded, wet and glistening, capped in tender points as pink as rosebuds.

Now, her rigid nipples pressed into his palms, begging for his attention. Could that be? Did she enjoy his touch? It seemed an outrageous notion, yet bent close over her as he was, he could hear the uneven pace of her breathing. He lifted her breasts above the level of the water just to watch the ruby tips crinkle further in the cooler air.

As if watching someone else’s hands, he saw his fingertips wrap gently around her erect nipples. He tenderly squeezed. She inhaled sharply. Her back arched. He softly twisted. Her hands fisted on the rolled copper edge of the tub. He plucked delicately, pulling the sweet pink tips longer and harder yet. Then he combined all three motions until her breath came fast and her thighs began to scissor together beneath the surface of the water.

It seemed it had not solely been a drunken delusion that first night. In defiance of her serene performance the night before, it seemed his pretty virginal wife did enjoy his touch.

She let out a small, broken cry of pleasure. The pearl, forgotten, slipped from her hand to sink to the bottom of the tub. When her head dropped back to roll upon his thigh, her eyes closed and her pink lips parted in quick, panting breaths. Ren could see the flush of arousal on her cheeks and down her throat and chest. His own aching lust rose like a dormant volcano kept too long beneath the fractured earth.

His want was sudden, as fierce and molten as lava breaking free. His mouth went dry and his head pounded with a rhythm matching the throbbing in his groin. To take her, to plunge hard into her sweet wet heat, to drive himself deep while he ravaged her mouth with his, swallowing her cries—

It was only with the most powerful restraint he had ever forced upon himself that he kept from stripping off his clothes and joining her there in the bath, from slipping down beneath her, lifting her astride him to impale her beneath the water, to fucking her hard and fast until he burst inside her and the bathwater ran across the floor from the great waves he created with his lust.

That would be a lovely way to treat a virgin. Rape her in the kitchen.

His lust rose in argument. She was his wife. A man could do as he liked with his own wife.

Sorry, mate. That is not how we conduct matters here. Be on your way.

Ren’s lust retreated, sullenly and with many a threatening glare, but it retreated. He allowed his pretty wife’s luscious breasts to slip out of his shaking hands. Her confused, breathy sigh cut directly through him. Then, drawing deeply upon every last scrap of his gentlemanly restraint, he stood and turned his back on her.

“Enjoy the remainder of your bath, Calliope. I shall see you tonight.”

Her swallow was quite audible. “Tonight? But—”

She clearly thought this interlude had bought her a reprieve. “Tonight.” No reprieve. It was all he could manage to wait that long to touch her again.

Gentlemen did not assault their wives. They did not pull them naked and dripping from the bath to bend them over kitchen worktables and take them vigorously from behind.

Bounder. Cad.

Beast.

God, how he wanted to take her vigorously from behind.

*   *   *

Callie slid down in the chilling water, covering her breasts with her hands and listening to Mr. Porter’s uneven stride fade away down the stone-paved hallway. Then, remembering, she scrabbled on the floor of the tub for the pearl.

Tonight.

He wanted more? More than having her naked and wet, writhing shamelessly for his pleasure?

Of course he wants more. And so do you.

Parts of her did. Parts of her yearned for a great deal more.

Callie knew a little something about sexual congress. All the Worthington spawn did. They’d had open access to literature from around the world. She’d known the basic mechanics of intercourse since she’d turned twelve and her mother handed her a heavily bound medical text with an airy wave and a “Don’t mind the illustrations, darling. All those drawings were done from cadavers.”

Callie had barely been able to look at the book after that. Still, her curiosity had compelled her to warily peek between the pages and glean enough facts to make her blush and shut the book with a gasp. Outrageous! Whose bright notion was
that
ridiculous scenario?

Now, with her nipples tingling hot and hard from Mr. Porter’s … er, interference … the scenario seemed not quite so ridiculous. In fact, her body hummed with a hunger she’d never felt so intensely before. Her feminine parts throbbed with a sweet ache that made her squeeze her thighs together tightly and shudder at the jolt of pleasure that resulted.

Mr. Porter wanted to do much more to her, she knew. By the way his hands had slid so reluctantly from her breasts, by his heavy, almost angry stride as he’d left her … oh, yes. More was definitely in store.

Licking her lips, tasting the salt and herbs, Callie rolled the pearl across her open palm and pondered the notion that when she returned to her home in a few months, she might return a very different woman than when she’d left.

And she pondered the earthshaking realization that she might just be rather comfortable with that outcome.

Leaning back in the lukewarm water, Callie allowed that astonishing thought to settle and take root in her mind. Closing her eyes, she also allowed her hand to settle between her thighs. What fascinating texts might Mr. Porter have read? Perhaps it was her newly heightened erotic senses, or perhaps she was simply losing her mind, but the thought of doing such a thing outside the privacy of the bedchamber—why, the thought of doing such a thing at all!—sent a hot jolt of excitement through the center of her belly.

I won’t. How silly. I would never.

I wager I could be safely done before anyone knew
.

Anyone. You mean him.

Yes, I mean him.

He is nowhere near. Unless … unless he’s watching from the hall.

I won’t.

Even as she told herself that, her hand began to stroke softly.

I have become more than wanton. I am decadent.
When her fingertips slipped between her labia, she let her head fall back onto the high slope of the copper tub with a liquid moan. She stroked herself and thought of him … of his hard, hot hands and the way his breath caught when he touched her …

My husband. My mystery lover. A man I have never truly seen.

She thought of a way he could take her while retaining his mystery—as a stallion takes a mare. The image of that, of her on her hands and knees, naked before him, exposed—of being mounted like a wild creature—of rocking hard and fast into him, of him plunging into her again and again until their wild cries turned to animal howls …

Chapter 7

Once Callie had dressed and wrangled the heavy copper tub from the kitchen, she was relieved to feel her former exasperation welling up once more. She tracked Mr. Porter down in his study.

“We … you need servants.”

He’d turned quickly away when she’d entered and pulled his cowl over his face. “No.”

If Callie had a sovereign for every time she’d planted her fists on her hips in the last two days, she wouldn’t need Mr. Blasted Porter’s Blasted Pearls. She’d practically worn sore spots on each side!

Still, there they went, white-knuckled with frustration, digging into her hips again.
I could count to ten. Perhaps one hundred.

I could turn and walk away, stop trying to talk to the blasted man, stop trying to reach him
—

Worthingtons do not quit. Ever.

“Who had the raising of you?”

Ren turned from his pretense of gazing out the window at nothing, glad that he’d remembered to keep his hood on while still in the house. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“I mean, were you raised in a house, by human parents, or perhaps in a cave, by a bear?”

It sounded so very like something his mother would have said that Ren almost laughed aloud. Startled out of the urge by the urge itself, he turned back to the window. “I had human parents once, though perhaps they would not claim me if they could have lived to see me now.”

She gave an unsympathetic snort. “Not if they could see how you treat your things. It seems a bear has been loosed in the hall. Perhaps not one bear, but several. There are rooms upon rooms that look as though rather impolite beasts have been making free with them!”

Impolite beast. An accurate enough description. “I have a hundred rooms. I shall scarcely run out in my brief remaining time.”

She went silent at that, as she always did when he brought up his imminent demise. Now she was likely ashamed for baiting a dying man. He turned, regretting his bluntness.

She didn’t look ashamed. She looked perplexed, annoyed, frustrated, and most of all, delicious. He could still feel her breasts heavy in his palms. He fisted them to keep the sensation safe within.

Mostly annoyed. He felt a pang of wariness. There was a gleam in her eye that reminded him of a certain industrious and exacting governess he’d had as a boy.

Impulsively, he offered her appeasement. “Human parents, but not for long. They passed away when I was but eighteen, within a year of each other. She died of influenza. He simply couldn’t live without her, I suspect.”

Ren didn’t like to think about the way his father had slipped away from him, his gaze always heavenward as if his own son weren’t enough to keep him tethered to the earth.
Don’t you want to stay around to see how I turn out, Papa?

Now he might as well take comfort in the fact that no one in the family had been put to the burden of that—at least no one but a distant cousin like Henry.

Callie refused to give in to sympathy. What happened to one as a child deferred blame from the child, but not from the adult. “Perhaps you like living in a dusty, dank tomb, but I’m rather fond of the scent of lemon polish and a roast in the oven.”

“You’ll be back to that life soon enough.”

It was as if he simply didn’t care. How could someone not care if walking through a room threw up a cloud of decades-old best-not-dwell-on-it?

He doesn’t see it. He doesn’t see anything past his own private horrors, whatever they are.

He doesn’t see me.

Oh, look. Now her arms were folded over her chest and her toe was tapping. Even Cas and Poll knew enough to flee before her tapping toe. Lysander, back before the war when he’d been the sort to make jests, had dubbed it the Toe of Doom.

However, poor ignorant Mr. Porter ignored the evil toe and went on being insufferable. Callie almost pitied the man. Almost.

“Are you quite sure you won’t reconsider? Just a cook … and a few housemaids, of course. A laundress. Perhaps a stable boy. A housekeeper to run matters. And it wouldn’t hurt to do something with the grounds…”

He turned to gaze at her from the depths of his hood. She couldn’t see his eyes but she glared at him anyway. His eyes were in there somewhere. How far off could she be?