“Clara,” he said hoarsely.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said. “Get this off.”
He gave a choked laugh and rose. He shrugged out of his waistcoat and tossed it aside. He pulled his shirt out from the waistband of his trousers, she helping clumsily.
He pulled the shirt over his head and flung it away, and she reached up to set her palms against his chest. His skin glowed golden in the candlelight, and his body was hard and warm like a marble statue come alive. She could feel his strength under her hands. She could feel his body respond to her, his muscles tensing under her touch. She slid her hands over his skin, discovering him as though she were an explorer and he a new land she’d happened on.
And yes, his body was a new world to her.
She’d had glimpses of little boys’ bodies in her childhood, and she’d seen statues in a state of extreme undress—most notably and visibly the Achilles in Hyde Park. She’d never before seen a living adult man’s body. It was a revelation, though at present she had no idea what exactly had been revealed to her. She was too overheated and dizzy—and he was touching her again, too, moving his hands over her, exploring her body the way she explored his.
He kissed her everywhere, and she followed his lead, kissing his neck and shoulders and every part of him she could reach. She could hear his breathing come harder and faster, like hers. Her skin seemed to be on fire. She was hot inside, too.
He stroked downward, over her belly and down between her legs, and she parted them shamelessly to his touch, opening herself entirely. She’d discovered an altogether new experience, and she wanted more. Her body trembled with the wanting.
She felt him move, changing his position. His hand came away from her, and she nearly cried out.
He said, “That’s as much as I can stand, my lady.”
She heard fabric rustle, but she was too deranged to recognize it or care what it was. She cared only that he’d stopped touching her and moved away.
She said, “Please don’t stop yet.”
He muttered something about trousers. She realized he was taking them off. She wanted to look—she had an idea of what was coming—but shyness overwhelmed her, and she couldn’t. She kept her gaze to his upper body, his beautiful–not beautiful face.
He said, his voice low and rough, “Before was the firstly and secondly. This is the thirdly.”
He came back to her and stroked between her legs. She felt him spreading her, but all she could do was squirm and tremble, her body obeying something that wasn’t her brain—
He pushed into her.
“Oh!” she said, startled, dismayed. Was it supposed to hurt?
What had Mama said? She couldn’t remember.
He was kissing her again, deeply, passionately. He was caressing her, squeezing her breasts. Pleasure surged once more, flooding her with heat. The craving—for whatever it was—returned, stronger than before.
She was aware of him inside her, and though the initial hurt was subsiding, she wasn’t quite comfortable. Yet somehow her body was trying to make it so, warming her and making her move. She heard him groan.
“My girl, I’m not sure how much more of this—”
“Wait. I think I’m getting the hang of it.”
He made a sound, laughter and groan combined.
Her head was spinning and her body had been taken over by a savage, but she tried to think what a lady could do.
Put the guest at ease.
“Yes, I’m quite well,” she said, trying for dignity while her voice shook. “You may proceed, Mr. Radford.”
He laughed again in that pained way, and kissed her again and again. Then he was moving inside her, and this stirred her up anew, more than before. She could feel her blood rushing through her veins and her heart beating fast and very hard, and with these simple bodily sensations came such transcendent feelings—joy and surprise and warmth and an overwhelming tenderness for him and a craving, too, as primitive as hunger.
She couldn’t stop her hands from roaming over his body, down to his waist and below, even over his naked bottom. Longing swamped shyness and she learned the shape and feel of the man she’d wed. She moved with him in the way she’d kissed him, taking his lead and learning as she went.
The feelings grew stronger and stronger until she thought she’d burst. Wave upon wave of happiness seemed to carry her farther and farther toward a distant destination, as though she were a ship drawn to a barely glimpsed shore. Then all at once she was there. She shuddered, and felt him shudder, too, sweet sensations coursing through her.
And after a time, she seemed to float down from the waves’ crest and fall into his arms. Contentment swept over her, and it seemed she’d come home at last, and she was safe on that other shore.
Chapter Fifteen
Richmond is a village in Surrey, nine miles from London, and is certainly the finest, most luxuriant, and most picturesque spot in the British Dominions.
—Samuel Leigh, New Picture of London, 1834
In time, Radford quieted. He was on the brink of falling asleep when a sound stirred his mind awake again.
Rain.
The day of his wedding had veered between sunlight and gloom, like his emotions in the weeks since he’d met her.
Now rain beat against the windows.
He remembered the rainy day when he’d climbed into the cab beside her, and the scent of Clara had enveloped him.
Her scent was everywhere now, mingled with his and the scent of their lovemaking. She was in his arms and she was warm and soft and perfect.
His wife. His wife.
He still couldn’t take it in. In any case, he was too bone-weary to think.
Cautiously he eased himself from her. Thinking she’d fallen asleep, he was about to draw her back into his arms when he saw her eyes were wide open. She was staring up at the canopy.
As he hesitated, completely at a loss for once, her gaze, still wide, came down to his face.
“No wonder Mama was tongue-tied,” she said thickly. “How is one to explain something like that? To somebody else? It’s so personal.”
He stifled a groan.
He’d wanted to be a good bridegroom—nay, being who he was, he’d determined to be a superior one. He’d been near collapse with fatigue, yet he’d tried to stay awake while she spent eternity undressing. He would have liked to undress her, but knew it was wiser to leave that to the maid. In his state of exhaustion, he was bound to fumble as he tried to disassemble her complicated bridal attire. Fumbling was not permissible. This night had to be perfect for her, considering the life she’d abandoned for life with him.
He’d resolved to make her first time as exciting, pleasurable, and free of pain as was humanly possible. He hadn’t had the remotest idea how Herculean a task he’d set himself, trying to maintain control in the face of her innocence and willingness and tenderness, coupled with a beauty that made him breathless.
No, never mind Hercules and his paltry labors. All the gods of Olympus working in concert would have struggled to restrain themselves in the circumstances.
He’d used the last resources of his willpower to keep matters going until he felt sure she was ready.
And all of that had gone well. He’d nearly died in the process, but she hadn’t seemed to suffer much, even at the painful part, and for the rest of it she’d been . . . open. And passionate and . . . loving.
But now he could scarcely find the strength to breathe—and she wanted to talk.
“Clara,” he said.
“Mr. Radford.” She smiled.
Ah, that smile. It could turn all a man’s resolutions, along with the brain holding them, into melted butter.
He said, “If you would allow me a short nap—half an hour—I should be glad to talk or do whatever you like. But a
t the moment—”
“I know,” she said. “You must be weary to death.”
“Not of you, I promise.”
“I should hope not,” she said. “If, after all we’ve been through, you’d grown weary of me already, I should certainly kill you.”
“And no jury on earth would convict you, whether or not you batted your big blue eyes at them,” he murmured, trying to keep his own eyes open. “Justifiable homicide, they’d say, and off you’d go, to kill another fellow and get away with it.”
“Well, men make up juries,” she said. “I meant only that, after the month you’ve had, it was a wonder you could remain standing for the nuptials. I know I should have kept my hands to myself and let you sleep, but you . . . Well, I’m not very disciplined, apparently. But yes, of course we ought to sleep. I’m not sure, though. Do we sleep close together or—”
“Close together if you don’t mind.”
“Thank you, Mr. Radford. I have no objections. However, I shall have to follow your lead in this, too. I never slept with a man before.”
“Then we’ll start with this.” He pulled the bedclothes up over them and turned onto his side and drew her up against him. “Like spoons.”
“Yes, that’s very nice,” she said.
He drew her closer, bringing her rump against his membrum virile, which promptly forgot how tired it was.
“Oh!” she said.
“Pay him no heed,” he said. “He has a tiny, tiny brain of his own and that tiny brain is trying with all its might to kill me. I am a young and healthy man with a most desirable wife, but the brain in my head being larger, I realize that—”
“Firstly,” she said, and he heard the smile in her voice.
“Firstly, a considerate husband gives his new bride time to recover,” he said. “And secondly, I shall do a bad job in this state of weariness.”
For a moment she said nothing. Then, “I don’t know anything,” she said very quietly.
“Luckily you married me. You’ll learn everything correctly.”
“Everything,” she repeated.
“Everything you need to know,” he said. “And possibly some things you don’t need to know.”
He was looking forward to teaching her, far more than he would ever have guessed.
He closed his eyes and savored her warmth and softness, and in no time drifted into sleep.
Later
The first thing Radford became aware of was warm, soft Woman tucked up against him. At the realization, his body came fully awake and alert well before his mind took in the distinctive darkness that boded dawn.
His mind caught up quickly enough.
He had a great deal to think about. He had decisions to make.
There was his father, who’d borne the wedding excitement well, but needed tranquillity at present. The trouble was, Radford’s marrying so high was sure to bring Radford relatives looking for favors. They’d latch on to the older man first, supposing he’d be more vulnerable.
Radford needed to be nearer to his parents. And that raised the question of where he and Clara would live. Her friends and family had offered houses. Like the Duke of Clevedon, they all seemed to have a residence to spare.
Though Radford had resisted the idea of asking his cousin for Malvern House, he couldn’t let his pride rule in this case. It might be best for Clara. And best for the house, for that matter, not to stand empty.
Still, it would cost heaven and earth to live there.
While his income was well above what Lady Warford had imagined—the marquess was less surprised, having used due diligence in all regards—it was not up to staffing and maintaining a palatial London residence.
He needed a plan, and soon. Their stay with his parents was to be temporary. Yet he needed to be close at hand to deal with rampaging Radfords. Between London and Richmond there had to be something. In Kensington or another London suburb.
And the bridal trip? He would not put that off indefinitely. He knew Clara wanted to visit the Continent. Though she never said so outright, he’d discerned the longing in her eyes when anybody spoke of Paris or Venice or Florence. Others wouldn’t see it but to him it was as plain as the gold letters over the shop door spelling out MAISON NOIROT . . . where his bride had spent thousands of pounds—what her father would regard as pocket change.
When the better weather arrived, then . . .
Clara snuggled closer.
His thoughts trailed away.
He nuzzled her neck and slid his hand down along her arm and over to caress and cup her breast. She made an mmmm sound in her sleep. He trailed his hand down along the delicious inward curve of her waist, then over her belly and lower. She stirred in his arms.
“Are we awake?” she murmured.
“You don’t have to be,” he said. “I can manage this by myself. You don’t have to move a muscle . . . that is, not more than a little.”
He stroked down over the sweet place between her legs. So soft she was, the feminine nest like silken threads over velvet. Heat tore through him and his hand trembled.
“This will probably not last as long as the first time,” he said.
“Oh, my goodness.” She quivered under his touch, and made small sounds in her throat, moans caught in sighs.
He shifted her slightly to slide his knees between her legs. “Not a fraction as long.”
Her beautifully rounded bottom rested on his thighs. The rush of desire darkened his mind, as though a storm bore down on it. Even though his wilder self was taking over, driving him, he tried not to hurry. He kissed the back of her neck and her shoulders and arms. He slid his hand along her thigh, upward over her belly and up to her breast, and down again while he savored the way she felt under his hands and the way she responded, moving, murmuring, urging him on without realizing she was doing so.
He couldn’t get enough of touching her, and yet he had to have her now. In the storm of his mind images swirled of the first time—her innocence and understanding and tenderness and lust, too. She’d begun discovering herself as a woman while he discovered her as his woman, his wife.
His wife.
He brought his hand down to ready her, and found her ready, damp to his touch, and squirming under it. He stroked her and heard the hitch in her breathing—the first, small orgasm. He thrust into her. Oh, she was so tight but giving way like water and surrounding him and moving with him, sensation heightening with every movement. The pleasure of it was at the edge of endurable.
“I think you’re getting the hang of it,” he gasped into her ear.
“Oh, my Raven,” she murmured. “I think you are, too.”
One choked laugh, then he moved, stroking inward and drawing away, teasing a little at first, but soon finding himself beyond teasing. They found a rhythm to this, in the same way they’d found their own way to kiss, learning from each other, paying attention and caring.
He cared beyond what he’d thought possible in himself.
Because, how could he not? She’d been meant for him and he for her, though this made no rational sense. But reason didn’t signify. Reason belonged elsewhere. Here were a man and his new bride, and here affection mattered and desire and pleasing her and pleasing himself.
Their lovers’ dance went faster and faster, and the world grew hotter and darker. And mindless though he was, he had a sense of their traveling headlong, two riders in a beautiful storm. Faster and fiercer, until the storm caught them. He felt her shudder when she reached her peak, and felt his own body shake, too, as though he’d been struck by lightning.
But it was love, only love, and for now, nothing else mattered. The storm quieted, and he drew her into his arms, and once more, they slept.
I can hear you thinking,” she said.
She wasn’t sure what had woken her. It might have been the di
stant sounds of the household stirring or the not-quite-silent steps of a maid entering to restore the fire or the someone who’d come in at some point and drawn the curtains round the bed. Whatever had jarred her from sleep—sounds or awareness of daylight or something else altogether—she was awake and aware she wasn’t the only one.
“You can’t hear me thinking,” he said. “It’s physically impossible.”
“It isn’t. I can tell by the distracted way you’re fondling my breast.”
“Your breast is distracting.”
She turned toward him.
“Now it’s more distracting because there are two of them in plain sight,” he said. He ran his hand over first one, then the other. Heat and longing swirled through her. “And fine ones, too, by the way.”
“That’s lucky, since you married them.” Though she spoke so boldly, she felt a flush spreading over her skin. She still wasn’t used to being married.
“So I did. Them and this.” He stroked her belly. “And this.” He moved his hand down and her breath caught.
He took his hand away. “I’d better not start anything,” he said. “I should have given you more time last night. The virgin body—”
“I’m not a virgin anymore,” she said. “I’m a married woman.”
“The newly initiated,” he said, “need respite. Otherwise, sometimes, an irritation develops, which can be quite uncomfortable. I’ve nursed you through one ailment, yes, but you were weak and helpless then. Even debilitated, you hit me. Hard. This sort of thing could put you in a bad mood, and you might strike me with a blunt instrument. Even if there’s no physical violence, you won’t want me to touch you for months. Or ever again.”
“An irritation?” she said. “No one mentioned that.” Not that Mama had mentioned much of anything comprehensible.
“And no one will have to mention it if we can contrive to behave ourselves, more or less, until . . . well, at least later in the day. Though it would be better to wait until tonight. I was thinking of a candlelit supper in front of the fire. Then I would prostrate myself at your feet and start licking your toes and work my way up.”