A Lady of Persuasion (18 page)

He stopped instantly. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she answered quickly. Too quickly to be credible.

“Forgive me. I’m moving too fast. We have the whole night ahead of us. Perhaps you’d prefer to rest?”

“No. No, I think I’d rather …”

“Have it over with?” His soft laugh tickled her ear.

“Yes. I mean …” Bel’s face burned as she realized how ungracious she sounded. “That is, unless you don’t want to.”

His voice went dark. “Oh, I want to. I very much want to.” His hands slid to her hips, and for the first time Bel noticed something hard and hot pressing into her lower back. She knew it had to be his manhood. “I’ve wanted you since the first moment I saw you.”

Her breath caught. Against her crossed arms, her nipples hardened and ached. And what was the polite response to such an admission?
Thank you? Sir, you flatter me? Please be gentle,
and if at all possible, quick?

At the heart of the matter, Bel wasn’t sure how to respond simply because she wasn’t sure how she felt about the entire enterprise. Her racing pulse, her quickened breath, the heightened awareness of all her senses—her body was readying for
something
. She just didn’t know what. Excitement and terror mingled in her veins, and she couldn’t tell whether her instincts were urging her to fly at her husband or simply flee the room.

Of course, the second was not an option at all. She was married now, and conjugal relations were her wifely duty. The thought calmed her. Bel might not know what to make of this unruly sensation, but she understood duty. And she wanted to make Toby happy, she did. Closing her eyes, she resolved to focus on him—on the warm, solid planes of his chest supporting her frame, his confident hands grasping her shoulders, the heat of his breath against her ear. He was her husband, and she could deny him nothing.

And just when she had decided to turn, face him, and brazenly offer herself for his pleasure, he took a step back. Suddenly cold, she hugged herself tight and shivered.

“We’ll take things slowly,” he said, twining a finger through the loose strands of hair at her temple. “May I take your hair down?”

She nodded. After pausing to take a hairbrush from the dressing table, he guided her to sit at the foot of the bed and then knelt behind her. It made Bel increasingly anxious, how much time he was spending behind her. She couldn’t comfort herself by focusing on his warm eyes or his easy grin. He was all seductive touch and smooth whispers and masculine heat. She couldn’t see him; she could only feel him. Hear him. Breathe the last traces of his expensive cologne as they evaporated into the natural musk of his skin.

“Here.” He teased a pearl-studded pin from her hair and held it above her left shoulder. Bel held up her open palm to receive it. Soon another pin joined the first, and another and another

—until her hair tumbled free down her back, the blunt ends just brushing the coverlet. She curled her fingers over the clutch of pins, unsure what to do with them.

“Magnificent,” he murmured, lifting her hair and allowing it to spill over her shoulders and around her breasts. “Like black silk.” He tugged the brush through her hair in a long, slow motion, stroking a wave of delicious pleasure from her scalp to the base of her spine.

Behind her, Toby made a strange sound in his throat. “It’s like pulling a brush through water.

Do you know I’ve dreamed of doing this?”

Had he, truly? Dreamed of this? Bel had experienced some rather intimate dreams of her own the past few weeks. None of them so specific as brushing hair. No, her own dreams were restless and vague and shadowy and just never quite
complete
.

With expert care, he worked his way through each section of her hair. A pleasant languor settled over Bel as he brushed, and the knot of tension in her belly began to uncoil. She closed her eyes, bracing her weight on her right hand and still clutching the handful of hairpins in the left.

“Isabel?”

“Mmm.”

“You do understand, don’t you? What occurs between a husband and wife?”

“Yes, I—” She winced as the brush snagged on a hidden tangle. “I understand.” At least, she comprehended the basic idea. Even without reading That Book, she’d lived too rural a life to grow up completely innocent of mating.

“Did your …” Toby cleared his throat, then continued in a tone of false nonchalance. “Did your sister speak with you, tell you what to expect?”

“No, no. That is, Sophia offered.” His hand jerked slightly when she said the name. Oh, how unspeakably embarrassing this was! “But as I said, I already understood the general concept, and I told her … I told her I would prefer to learn the rest from you.”

He set the brush aside. “Did you?”

“Yes, of course.” She craned her neck, needing to see his expression. Had she done the right thing? To her relief, he looked pleased. “I trust you will explain to me anything you wish me to know. And if there are things you do
not
wish me to know—well then, it is best they remain unexplained.”

A puzzled smile appeared on his face. “Thank you. I think.” He swept a heavy lock of hair behind her ear. Their gazes met, and she caught a peculiar glimmer in his eyes. “Your trust humbles me.”

“Well, I find myself quite humbled by my ignorance, so perhaps we are well matched in that respect.”

He moved to sit beside her at the edge of the bed, taking her open hand in his. “I believe we are well matched, in many respects.”

She blushed and stared down at their interlaced fingers. His thumb stroked idly back and forth across the back of her hand. So gentle, so soothing—even though his uneven breath betrayed his growing passion. Truly, she had the best, most patient of husbands. How could she not give him her trust?

“Besides,” she said haltingly, “it’s clear you have considerable experience with …” She cast a darting glance over her shoulder, toward the vast expanse of mattress. “With this. How could I doubt your ability to guide me?”

“Considerable experience?” He laughed. “Again, I thank you. I think. Darling, my experience

—while not negligible—is probably less than you imagine.”

“But—” Bel paused, thinking of the scandal sheets tallying his paramours.

“But what? Don’t tell me you’ve been reading
The Prattler?”

She slanted her gaze to the floor. “Not purposely.”

“I’ve told you, don’t believe all you read in the newspapers.” He squeezed her hand. “Isabel, I’m not a monk. But though I may flirt with every debutante to flounce in my direction, when it comes to …” His eyes darted toward the bed. “To
this
, there haven’t been so many as the papers imply. There haven’t been any, actually, in some time. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“That you are selective and principled?”

He chuckled. “You always give me too much credit. I’m telling you that I’m quite desperate for you.” He let go of her hand and caressed her cheek. Then her bottom lip. The smooth charm in his voice gave way to raw need as the distance between them narrowed. “I’ve been waiting for you, for a very long time.”

His lips took hers in a passionate kiss. Bel’s fingers curled into fists. The hairpins bit into her left palm. How absurd, that she was still holding them, but what else could she do? Should she break the kiss to say,
Dear, sweet husband, I know you’ve been waiting for me for a very long
time, but can I beg you to wait a moment longer while I dispose of these hairpins?

No, of course not. She would not ask him to wait, not a moment longer. She would allow him to kiss her, just as deeply as he wished. And she would kiss him back, stroking his tongue with hers—because he made a little growl of approval when she did so, and Bel craved his approval even more than she craved his kiss. He was proud of her, he’d said. And even if he had told her so several times already, she couldn’t hear it—or feel it—enough.

His hands moved to the front of her dressing gown, untying the simple ribbon bow and drawing the two sides apart. With deft fingers, he dispatched the row of tiny buttons dividing her nightgown. One, two, three, four … Bel lost count when his mouth broke away from hers to trail urgent kisses along her jaw and down her throat. His fingertips brushed her breastbone as he worked the buttons loose, one after another—and that unbearable, heavy ache swelled her breasts.

Bel squeezed her eyes shut as he parted the sides of her nightgown, exposing her bosom. She could feel him staring at her chest, her nipples tightening under his gaze. But she would gladly forgive him a lifetime of lurid glances, if only he would touch them.

And, oh. Oh, at last. He did.

Someone gave a ragged sigh. Bel wasn’t sure if it had originated in his chest or hers. She opened her eyes to see his strong, sculpted hands cupping her breasts, lifting them, taking their ponderous weight from her frame. Oh, heaven. It was like bathing in the sea, buoyant and weightless. Her dark, swollen nipples jutted out for attention, and he brushed his thumbs over the straining tips. Twin jolts of pleasure raced to her core.

“So beautiful,” he murmured.

Bel resisted the impulse to disagree. Her breasts always looked grotesquely large and indecent to her, but in his hands they looked—not beautiful, exactly. But as though they fit. As though they were just right. The heavy globes were the perfect size for his fingers to hold, to lift, to shape. Her large, dark areolas seemed expressly fashioned to wedge in the crook of his thumb and forefinger as he ever-so-gently squeezed.

Bel gasped as he bent his head and took her taut, aching nipple into his mouth. She was a perfect fit there, too. Wild sensation swirled through her as he licked and sucked. There she went, melting again. Damp heat surged between her thighs, and she clamped them together.

Toby transferred his attentions to the other breast, working dark, dangerous magic with his lips and tongue. All the while, his hand groped for the hem of her nightgown. With rough movements, he gathered the fabric up to her knee, and then his hand encircled her bare thigh.

The air in the room grew thin. No matter how her lungs worked, Bel couldn’t draw enough of it.

“Isabel.” His brow rested on her chest. “Let me touch you there.”

How could she refuse? It didn’t seem possible to accomplish what she knew they must accomplish without
some
part of him touching her there. But her panic built as his hand crept slowly higher, up the sensitive slope of her inner thigh, knowing that he would most certainly discover—

He groaned as his fingers reached her cleft. “You’re so wet.”

To her surprise, he didn’t sound appalled, but pleased. Approving. His fingers rubbed against her, and Bel gave a sharp cry. She couldn’t help it. The sensation was so intense. The hairpins bit into her palm as she struggled for control.

He kissed her, stifling her next unwilling moan. “I knew it would be like this,” he said between kisses, his fingers rubbing her more firmly. More quickly. “You’re so serious, my darling.

Always so serious. But not here, not with me. Here, I knew you would be so passionate. So free.”

No, no
, she wanted to protest.
I’m a woman of faith and principle. I refuse to be ruled by my
passions. That way lies madness
.

But then with a single finger, he parted her folds and slipped inside her.
Inside
her. The feeling was … shocking. Glorious. Incompatible with thought, much less conversation.

A hot, restless longing built as he stroked her relentlessly, inside and out. The sensation was not wholly unfamiliar. Sometimes in the night Bel woke with this same dull ache between her legs. And she’d learned years ago that if she rolled over and ground her hips against the bed, first it got a bit worse, but then it got a bit better—until it broke into pieces and mercifully went away.

But it was never like this. Never this bad. Never this good.

Without ceasing his sweet torment, Toby sank to the floor and knelt in front of her, spreading her legs. It seemed wrong, in so many ways: him kneeling before her, her thighs splayed in this lewd posture, the manner in which her most intimate places were revealed to his gaze, to his touch …

To his mouth.

Oh. Oh. Oh.

Never this bad. Never this good. It was too much, too much.

“Toby.” She wriggled away from him, but his hand tightened over her thigh. “Toby, please.

Don’t you want to take your pleasure now?”

“Your pleasure is my pleasure.” He licked her over and over, so very lightly. And sensation detonated in her each time, destroying her presence of mind. She understood why her mother had gone mad from passion. With each tender caress, he pushed her closer to some terrible brink of sanity. She would shatter apart. She would never be whole again.

“Toby, please.” She forced the words out. “You must … must stop.”

“What must I stop?” he asked, his voice joking. “This?” He licked. “This?” He stroked. “Or this?” He pursed his lips and did something ineffably wicked.

Another little cry escaped her. “You’re teasing me.”