Alex’s arousal had reached an excruciating point. He tore his eyes away from Charlotte’s waist, taking a deep breath, and readjusted his pantaloons. It would be heaven to take them off, but he didn’t dare frighten her at this point. Still, he looked up and caught her looking at his hands. Instead of looking like a hypnotized deer, she was looking distinctly interested, it seemed to him.
“The next verse?” Charlotte demanded. Alex cleared his throat.
“You sound very tired,” his wife said. “Maybe I could … give you some energy.” To Alex’s utter surprise, Charlotte closed the inch or so between them, so her side was touching his. She swung her legs over his. Then she leaned back on her hands and smiled at him enchantingly.
“Charlotte,” Alex said hoarsely. “If you want me to keep singing, you can’t torment me like this.”
His eyes kindled a blaze in Charlotte that made her simply arch one delicate shoulder, delighting in the way the silk draped over her full breasts. Alex’s hand reached out and almost roughly traced the enchanting, heavy weight of one breast. Charlotte’s eyes darkened but she didn’t push him away. She let her breast stay in his hand and somehow found her voice in the midst of the raging feelings surging through her body. She felt like shamelessly pressing herself into his arms, but instead she said:
“My verse!”
Alex made a strangled noise and pulled his hand back from her breast. He grabbed the two glasses of champagne on the side table and took a gulp from his glass, handing her the other. After he gave her an admonishing look, Charlotte also drank.
“All right,” Alex said finally. “But—for this kind of ballad a singer cannot be as uncomfortably dressed as this particular singer is.” He stood up, swinging Charlotte’s legs off his knees while continuing to talk in a conversational tone. “You know what I mean, Charlotte. That Indian chanter we saw at Astley’s—what was he wearing?”
Charlotte wasn’t paying any attention. Alex drew his white shirt over his head, the action emphasizing his muscled chest. His skin was a golden honey-brown. She trembled with longing. She would like to run her fingers over his muscles…. Alex noted her bemused expression with relief. He pulled off his boots, and finally hauled his knit pantaloons and drawers down to his ankles and stepped out of them. Charlotte’s eyes widened but she couldn’t stop looking.
Alex grinned. “He was wearing a white nightshirt, Charlotte!” She just stared at him. “Would you like me to pull on a nightshirt?”
Charlotte shook her head no, then yes.
“Too late!” her husband said cheerfully, sitting down on the bed. Charlotte’s stomach felt as if it were melting. He was just going to sit there, stark naked, with all the candles burning? She instinctively crossed her arms over her breasts. She would never sit around naked, in the light, no matter what he thought. She had conveniently forgotten all of Alex’s whispered stories about how he planned to make love to her in full sunshine.
Alex pretended not to notice the arms clamped over Charlotte’s breasts. He handed Charlotte her glass of champagne again, and she reluctantly unwrapped one arm in order to take it. Then he cleared his throat self-importantly.
“A vision too I had of old,
That thou a mortar were of gold;
Then could I but the pestle be,
How I would pound,
Oh! How I would pound my spice in thee!”
Charlotte was trying to cope with the feeling of melting, liquid fire that seemed to be invading every limb of her body. Was Alex going to “pound” into her? It even … it even sounded pleasant.
Never one to miss an opportunity, Alex took one look at Charlotte’s flushed cheeks and trembling lips and smoothly removed her glass again. His body came down on hers with crushing force, suddenly pressing Charlotte back onto the bed. She gasped but her hands came up to his neck rather than pushing him away. The sensation of his body intimately pressing into hers engrossed all her attention. Instinctively she arched her hips slightly and pressed against him.
Slowly! Alex thought. Slowly! He took Charlotte’s mouth, lingeringly kissing her in a tormenting, seductive rhythm that made her writhe under him. Her lungs felt as if they didn’t have enough air; her legs were trembling. Charlotte moaned, her breath coming in short pants. Still Alex prolonged the kiss, his hand abruptly descending onto her breast. His thumb rubbed Charlotte’s nipple through her silk gown and she arched against him again. She clutched his shoulders with her hands.
Alex was almost mad with desire, and yet in the back of it all he felt ecstatic. This was it—heaven, the closest he’d been to heaven since he made love to his girl-in-the-garden. And this time was so much better than the garden, because it was his Charlotte who lay under him, her head thrown back, sweat glimmering on her throat, her red lips opening in shattered moan after moan. God, he knew she would be a fiery lover.
Then rational thought deserted him. Charlotte’s hands fluttered from their snug circle around his neck and slowly found their way down his naked back to the curve of his waist where his muscled buttocks flared. Alex groaned as her hands curiously swept down as far as they could go, finally sliding to the side and coming back up. He grabbed her hands and held them over her head, rubbing his lips across hers.
She opened her eyes. “I want to touch you too,” she whispered. Alex almost lost his control on the spot.
“No,” he said huskily. “You’re driving me mad, Charlotte. Next time.” He caught up both of her wrists in one of his huge hands and dropped his other hand down to her waist. Then he began slowly to haul up her nightdress, watching her eyes for signs of fear. All he saw was dazed, innocent longing. In fact, Charlotte didn’t even notice what he was doing. Her body felt as if it weren’t hers anymore. Her breasts felt heavier, prickly, alive. Her legs had become a pool of liquid fire. The only thing she could think about was pulling Alex on top of her … feeling him rub his heavy weight against her again. Her stomach twisted with longing. She whimpered, and opened her eyes.
“Alex,” she whispered, “please!”
Her nightdress was at her waist. Alex’s hand dipped into the sweet enclosure between her thighs and a shudder of sweat broke out over his body. She was ready … she was more than ready. On her part, Charlotte let out a half shriek as his finger sank into her warm depths. She sobbed out loud, her breathing labored.
Alex positioned himself over her, rubbing himself against her. Charlotte’s eyes were fastened desperately on his, her body taken over by a throbbing, aching need. Alex slid slowly inside her, rigidly controlling every movement. He was planning the slowest, most gentle first time that any woman ever experienced. He went about a third of the way in and then began to withdraw. But Charlotte whimpered and clutched his shoulders with a heartfelt “No….”
Alex looked down at her. Charlotte’s face was wild with desire, transformed. He leaned down to kiss her and her mouth opened vulnerably to his invasion. She arched against him again, and he burst free. For the first time in his adult life Alexander Foakes completely lost control.
He plunged into Charlotte’s incredible warmth, ramming his way into the narrow canal that clung moistly and seemed to part for him. Dimly he noticed that Charlotte seemed to be lucky enough not to have a maidenhead. But he was lost, driving into her again and again. And yet, she was with him. He knew, even as he knew that if she hadn’t been with him, there would have been nothing he could do about it. He had waited too long for this moment.
For her part, Charlotte was having a hard time not shrieking. There was no pain, just unbearably sweet, unbearably piercing pleasure. With every stroke her body instinctively rose to meet Alex’s. And she felt a rising sense of tension that wasn’t helped even when her body ground against his.
When Alex came up on his knees, putting his large hands under her hips and pulling her up to meet his punishing strokes, she couldn’t stop herself; she started to cry out with every drive of his hips. Alex reached down and ripped her negligee apart at the neck, grabbing her brea
st and bringing it to his mouth. It was like throwing gunpowder on a raging fire. With the next thrust of his hips Charlotte screamed out loud. Her body convulsed sweetly around Alex’s and he plunged into her madly, driving himself home with her. His deep, growling moan came seconds after the explosions in her body began to cease. And then his heavy body, damp with sweat, settled onto hers.
There was a moment of silence. Alex was trying to collect himself. He’d made love in gardens, in a carriage, to French courtesans and to a Danish princess, but he had never experienced shared passion like this in his entire life. Charlotte was still trying to catch her breath. Her mouth kept curving into a smile of pure happiness. She snuggled her cheek against Alex’s curls. Her whole body was caught in a wave of lassitude; her eyes started to close immediately. But she couldn’t just go to sleep, she thought languorously.
“Alex,” she finally murmured into his neck. “I didn’t know … it was wonderful, so wonderful.” There was a little silence. Alex lazily kissed the top of her head.
“I have never felt anything like it,” he admitted. Charlotte almost drifted off into sleep. Then she remembered what she wanted to say.
“It wasn’t at all like the other time,” she whispered. “No pain …” Her eyes fluttered shut and she fell straight into sleep. She didn’t notice that her husband’s body had suddenly become rigid on top of her.
With utter disbelief Alex rolled away from his sleeping wife’s side, staring at her incredulously. A black, black emptiness pressed down on his heart. By God, it had happened again. Charlotte was no virgin, just as Maria had been no virgin. No wonder she felt no pain; no wonder she wanted to touch him! Someone else, another man, had probably told her to say that, had taught her how to touch a man and arouse him. His stomach heaved. Charlotte looked so innocent, so unbelievably innocent, curled into a snug ball, her cheeks still flushed with pleasure, a small smile hovering even in her sleep. Why shouldn’t she be happy, for God’s sake? She’d fooled him. He was the loser again, fooled by a woman into thinking she was a virgin. She must have been laughing every night in the last couple of months! He thought with loathing of the nights when he had left her house, raging with desire. He had been such a simpleton he hadn’t even visited a whore to satisfy himself, thinking it would be disloyal to her. Disloyal! By God, he had a whore of his own.
His stomach heaved again and Alex made it to the chamber pot just in time, regurgitating all the wedding supper he and Charlotte had lovingly shared in a private dining room downstairs. His mind was black, burning with rage, his body twisted with self-loathing.
In the bed Charlotte sat bolt upright, startled out of her sleep by the noise Alex was making in the corner of the room. Instantly she scrambled off the bed, running over to the corner in her bare feet.
“Sweetheart,” she said softly, rubbing her hand along Alex’s bent back. Then she let go and turned to snatch a towel from the chair. She brought it back just as Alex straightened up. He grabbed the towel from her and rubbed his mouth. Slowly Charlotte realized that something was wrong besides Alex’s stomach. He was looking at her in such a way….
“What’s the matter, Alex?” she finally asked timidly. Something about his glance made her clutch her ruined nightdress together at the neck. His eyes raked her body, conveying utter disgust and rage.
“The matter is,” he said in a grating, ice-cold voice, “that I only just found out that I married yet another whore, and I am finding it a difficult sop to swallow.”
Charlotte stared at him in utter bewilderment.
“You were no virgin, were you?” He advanced on her menacingly, his eyes black with rage.
“No,” Charlotte said tremblingly, “but—”
“God damn it!” Alex turned away from her abruptly. His fingers were shaking with the urge to hit her, but he had never hit a woman, not even Maria. “Aren’t you going to scream back at me?” he demanded. “Maria was another whore like you, but at least she proudly stood up for herself! But then she didn’t enjoy herself as much as you do. Or did you fake that whole performance, those little cries, the way you faked being so afraid? God, I should have known the minute you responded to me like that. No lady acts the way you did. I never heard of a lady begging for it, panting, the way you did!”
Charlotte was shaking all over. He was right—or no, he was wrong; she wasn’t a whore. But voices clamored in her head, rules learned almost unknowingly from Lady Sipperstein at Lady Chatterton’s School for Young Gentlewomen. Ladies don’t wiggle their bottoms; ladies speak only in quiet voices; ladies never display too much exuberance or strong emotion. Lady Sipperstein always said that Charlotte wiggled too much when she walked. Alex was right: She wasn’t a lady. It didn’t take much imagination to think of what Lady Sipperstein would think of a woman who screamed out loud and begged….
Color stained Charlotte’s cheeks. Her eyes filled with tears as she looked down at the floor. She was the picture of guilt.
“Why did you do it?” Her husband was walking toward her again; through her tears she could dimly see his large form looming down on her. “Why did you do it?” he hissed, emphasizing each word. “Were you so desperate for a husband? Or was it just that I was the best on the market? Why not poor Braddon? Didn’t he seem like a better risk? Poor Braddon. He’s such a block that he probably wouldn’t ever have realized that you were just another trollop, no virgin. He would have been perfectly happy with his tainted bargain. My, my,” he said savagely, “I think you made a mistake. Because I already married one slut, and so I’m pretty familiar with the breed.”
Charlotte couldn’t even take in his words by this point. She clapped her hands over her ears, her whole mind and body protesting against the hatred that vibrated in her husband’s voice.
“No!” she said loudly.
“Aha! Now the screaming is going to start, right? Let me give you a hand!” Alex picked up a jar that stood on her dressing table and flung it violently against the wall. It smashed, glass tinkling to the ground. Charlotte watched, mesmerized, as white cream slid down the wooden boards. Her heart was thumping in pure terror. Maybe he would kill her, she thought. She had read about such things in the papers. And the law would say he was justified. Because he had been tricked into marrying a woman who wasn’t pure.
A drop of strength infused Charlotte’s body. If she was going to be killed by an irate husband—some part of her mind couldn’t even believe this was happening to her—she was not going to let him think he had the right to do it.
“I am not a whore,” she said in a small but even voice. She didn’t want to look at Alex but she made herself. She raised her head and met his eyes, flinching at the loathing she saw there. “I only slept with you, once before.”
Alex’s eyes narrowed. What kind of story was this? Did she think he went about deflowering virgins in his sleep and wouldn’t realize that her story was just hog-wash? “I never slept with you before,” he retorted, utter contempt gracing every word. “And as God is my witness, I will never sleep with you again.” He suddenly reached out and wrenched Charlotte’s nightdress from her clutching hand, ripping it the rest of the way to the floor.
“You should be able to market your wares pretty well in London,” he said calmly, surveying her body with steely eyes. Charlotte hardly heard him, thinking only that he seemed to be regaining self-control. “Yes, I think that you will be able to do pretty well for yourself among the younger set. I can see it now, the beautiful countess—” Suddenly Alex broke off. “Damnation!” He just remembered that if Charlotte did have adulterous affairs, it would be put down to his impotency. He felt as if a twining black snake had curled around his throat and was choking him to death.
Then Alex had an inspired idea. He wanted a nursemaid; now he had one. No reason Charlotte should live in London. Forget the trip to Italy—they had nothing to celebrate. No, he would take his new nursemaid to the country, in fact, farther than the country. He had an estate in Scotland. They would go there, and t
he woman he married could earn her keep. Then he’d go back to London and leave her in Scotland. Maybe he would visit once a year.
He looked at her. Charlotte was staring at the ground, silent tears slipping down her face. For a moment he had a flash of pity, but he ruthlessly thrust it away. Just so had Maria cried and begged forgiveness for her past. Just so had she promised never to dally with another man again, protested that his skill in bed was so great that she would be happy to stay with him all her days. And only two weeks later he had walked in on her and his head footman, energetically performing in the matrimonial bed. Alex’s fists curled. This time he would handle it better. His wife would live in Scotland, and he in London. She could raise his daughter, and he would never have to see her again. And damn anyone who wondered why his wife lived in Scotland. He would set up a mistress and squelch all the rumors about his potency—in fact, maybe he would sleep only with noblemen’s wives. Since he was an arrant cuckold, why not do the same to others?
His eyes fired with purpose. Alex took Charlotte’s arm roughly and pushed her over toward their luggage, piled in the corner.
“Begin packing,” he said coldly. He rang the bell for Charlotte’s maid. “We’re leaving. Tell Marie to wake up Pippa and Miss Helms.”
Charlotte looked at him numbly. “I didn’t sleep with other men!” she protested. “I only slept with you, once, years ago!”
Alex hardly listened. He strode out of the room without looking back. Two minutes later there was a gentle knock and Marie entered, her eyes wide with shock. In an instant she took in the picture of her sweet mistress, still clutching the remnants of her beautiful gown, sobbing uncontrollably. At least he didn’t seem to have injured her, Marie thought practically. Well, well. Her mistress must not have had the virginity he wanted—or maybe she just didn’t have a maidenhead. Men were blockheads about such things.