Cheryl Holt (45 page)

Now, if she could just figure out how to convince him to emit even a fraction of the same openness and solicitude for his parents when they returned from their honeymoon on the Continent, she’d consider herself to have accomplished a major feat.

Sensing her presence, he focused on the upper floors, searching the windows. His blue eyes locked on her, glittering with approval, roving over her form in a languid, sensual perusal. Her nipples were instantaneously alert, her corset laced too tightly, and she was boorishly anxious for James to leave, for her wedding night to commence.

Behind her, footsteps resonated in the hall, and she glanced over her shoulder as Abigail entered the room. With her own family gone, Sarah had every intention of replacing it with Michael’s, so she called upon Abigail at every opportunity. In a smattering of days, their relationship had evolved to where it seemed they’d been companions since childhood, that Abigail was the sister she’d never had.

“May I come in?” Abigail asked, her demeanor disheveled and a bit bewildered.

“Please do.”

With her pregnancy playing tricks, Abigail had dozed off on a couch during the noisy, boisterous reveling that ensued after the ceremony and, without the woman stirring, James had affectionately carried her upstairs and tucked her in bed for a nap.

“I fell asleep.”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Only about two hours.”

“Aren’t I interesting company! How embarrassing.”

“Don’t worry. No one noticed.”

Actually, everyone had, but they’d discreetly watched how sweetly and tenderly James had seen to her welfare. Apparently, James’s circle of acquaintances was amazed by the modifications that matrimony had contributed to his character, and the variations were a perpetual topic of gossip by all.

“I was never informed that a woman underwent so many bodily alterations when she was increasing.” Abigail moved to Sarah’s side. “Just wait till it happens to you.”

Sarah absently ran a hand across her abdomen, speculating as to whether it might have already occurred. As though he’d stored up months of lust, Michael couldn’t get enough of her. Evidently, he’d merely been biding his time until he could show her how much he needed and wanted her, and now that he could unleash his desire, there was no reining him in.

Since the afternoon of her arrival, they’d rarely left their bed. They couldn’t make it down to the parlor, or sit through an entire meal, without rushing back to the bedchamber for another experiment with passion. When they’d been in Bedford, Michael had taught her much, but the brief stint had provided her with only an inkling of the vast array of rapture that was available under his tutelage.

Abigail sidled nearer in order to see what had Sarah so preoccupied. On perceiving the two men, she murmured, “What a dashing pair of rogues they are.”

“It ought to be a sin to look so splendid.”

“I’ve always thought so.”

Abigail sounded almost petulant about it, and Sarah laughed as they surreptitiously spied on their husbands. Eventually, the duo concluded whatever conversation had them so engrossed. James wrapped an arm across Michael’s
shoulder—very much the elder, wiser sibling—and they vanished into the house.

For several lengthy moments after they’d disappeared, the two women peered at the spot where they’d been, then the observation burst from Sarah: “Lord, but we’re fortunate, aren’t we?”

“For a couple of girls from the country,” Abigail concurred, “we didn’t do too badly for ourselves.”

“We certainly didn’t.”

Downstairs, the men were moving about, the soft hum of their voices drifting up, and Sarah concluded that they were in the parlor, having a last whisky.

She and Abigail shifted away from the window, causing Abigail to heed the candlelight, the covers that had been turned down on the bed, the rose petals strewn about, and Sarah hoped her zeal to be secluded with her husband wasn’t too manifest. While she liked Abigail very much, she was ready for some privacy.

“I should be going,” Abigail judiciously pronounced, but then she didn’t budge. A tad flustered, she ultimately said, “Ah . . . I have something for you.”

“Really?” Abigail had planned and hosted the reception, so Sarah had insisted on no other wedding gift from her. They’d agreed, so she couldn’t conceive of what it might be, and her curiosity flared when she noted that Abigail was clutching a small leather satchel.

“A few weeks ago,” Abigail explained, “I found these pictures of Michael in an old trunk in the attic, and I . . . I . . . didn’t imagine they should just be lying about. I thought you might like to have them.”

Unable—for some reason—to meet Sarah’s gaze, Abigail proffered the portfolio. Sarah opened the flap and pulled out a dozen pen-and-ink drawings. Of her husband. Outrageously handsome. A decade younger. And naked. Very, very naked and disturbingly sexy in each one.

“What the devil . . .” Sarah briskly skimmed through the stack.

“You’re aware that they grew up in Paris, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, in their teen years, they had a friend,” Abigail clarified. “An artist, who painted this sort of thing for money.”

“You have some of James?”

“Three sets,” she admitted, blushing a bright scarlet. “It’s a long story,” was all she added by way of elucidation. “Until I stumbled upon these, I hadn’t realized that Michael posed, too.”

As she persevered with her chatter, Sarah was energetically thumbing through the pile. From every angle and perspective, Michael was graphically, diligently depicted. He was etched with great care; front, back, side, no position remained unportrayed, and the artist was clearly a master at detailing the human form.

Michael was sumptuous, smug, vainglorious and, while much of his torso was narrower—his muscles and bones not thoroughly matured into the manly physique he would ultimately acquire—other parts of his anatomy were painstakingly delineated, and she couldn’t quit gawking.

Even at such a tender age, his
best
attribute had been fully developed.

“Oh, my . . .” She used one of the drawings to fan her face against the sudden temperature of the room. “Did you peek at these?”

“I told James I hadn’t, but”—a wicked and naughty disposition glimmered in Abigail’s eye—“I especially like number six.”

“You brazen hussy!” Sarah giggled like a schoolgirl as she swiftly hastened to the sixth picture. Michael was a negligent model, with an arm leaned against a window frame as he insolently pouted over his shoulder at the artist. The posture was provocative, arousing, his hind legs tight and defined. And his bare posterior was so damned cute.

“Number
six
is definitely entertaining,” she promptly assented.

“Anyway”—Abigail was almost stammering—“you might have fun with them. Tonight and whenever . . .” Her
cheeks colored to a blazing shade of crimson, and she clasped her hands over them, trying to ward off the flash of heat. “Oh, mercy me! I’d better be off.”

They made their good-byes, with Abigail contending that Sarah needn’t accompany her downstairs, and Sarah was glad. With only James and Abigail still in attendance, there wouldn’t be much time before Michael joined her, and she needed every second to prepare. Now that she was in possession of Abigail’s marvelous gift, she required a few moments to deduce how to utilize it to premium advantage.

Abigail started out, then halted in the doorway. “Don’t you dare tell James I snooped at those pictures!”

“I won’t,” Sarah vowed, chuckling as Abigail scuttled away.

Immediately after Abigail’s exit, one of the maids conveniently popped in. Sarah flung her pouch of illustrations on the bed, then mellowed as she was stripped of her clothes, her hair brushed out, but she declined the other woman’s offer to apply lotions or perfumes.

Dismissing her, Sarah instructed that they not be disturbed till the morn, then she proceeded to her bath, sinking into the hot water and attempting to relax while she waited for her husband.

Her husband! The luscious concept tickled her stomach and ignited her anxiety. He would arrive anon, animated, domineering, urgent for her and what she could give him, and she couldn’t stand the anticipation, so she strove to contemplate some other topic, but diversion was impossible.

Her ears perked, detecting the faint noises of James’s and Abigail’s farewells, which meant Michael would enter directly. She slumped down in the tub, immersing her breasts, her shoulders, aiming for every inch of her body to be wet and slippery.

Presently, he was ascending the stairs, then advancing down the hall. She paused until he was in the outer bedchamber, then she clambered to her knees, lazily stretching
her arms, showing him her backside. Knowing he was at the door, she pretended she hadn’t noticed, but she could sense him behind her, prowling like a caged animal.

Coming up on her feet, she stepped onto the rug, whirling about just as he moved into the room.

“Good evening, Mrs. Stevens.” He formally greeted her, tipping his head in acknowledgment, and her heart did a colossal flip-flop at his mode of address.

“Mr. Stevens,” she answered just as precisely.

His sapphire eyes shimmered with desire and something more, something she wouldn’t even try to name. The cooler air had hoisted goose bumps on her skin, her nipples constricted, and he reached out and stroked an erect nub. “Always a pleasure to find you at your bath.”

“Would you like to take one, too?”

“Momentarily. First, let’s share a glass of champagne.”

Remarkably, he wasn’t his customary poised, confident self, and it was odd that, after their lewd frolicking of the past days, he could be nervous. Then, she recognized that she was tense, too. Assuredly, speaking those binding vows could unsettle a person; it hadn’t been any less austere the second time around.

“I’d like that.” The delay would be appreciated; the libation would calm them both. “It’s a tad chilly in here. Would you dry me?”

Retrieving a towel off the vanity, he rubbed it up and down her back, front, bottom, legs, then he enfolded her in the large cloth, tucking the flap at her cleavage to secure it in place. His arms went around her, and he pulled her close.

“How was your wedding, madam?”

The query was lightly hurled, but his wasn’t an idle question. With him, they never were. There was a lost little boy lurking at his core who desperately sought approval, though she’d never disclose that she pictured him as being so vulnerable.

“Everything I’d hoped for and more,” she responded honestly. She lifted up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the mouth. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I like your friends.”

“I don’t have many,” he broached as though it was a crime.

“You’re just choosy.”

“No. I admit it’s the beast in me. I scare people off.”

“Without a doubt,” she chuckled, “but not me.”

“Aren’t I the lucky one?” The opinion was voiced with much more sentiment than he’d meant to show.

“Yes, you are,” she admonished, and she intended to regularly remind him just how fortunate he was. “Is everyone gone?” she inquired, though she knew they were.

“Yes, praise be.” Breathtaking and magnificent, he smiled down at her. “I thought I’d never get you alone.”

“Poor baby,” she crooned. “Were you pining away?”

“All day.”

The gentle admission incited profound emotion. How she loved this man and always would! Since he could be rude, overbearing, and pushy, there was no accounting for it, but who could ever rationalize why two people belonged together?

Occasionally, they discussed their novel connection in the dark of night, when shadows made it comfortable for Michael to confess what was in his heart. Why had they met? From where did this impression of abiding affinity emanate? Early on, she’d sensed it, and since her arrival in London, it had flourished anew.

How would it burgeon as time progressed? What would they feel in a month? In six?

She looked down the road, through their middle years and beyond, and she could behold him by her side, the radiant center of her life. The notion brought such exultation and contentment that a few blasted tears sprang to her eyes, and she tamped them down, refusing to exhibit an uncontrollable, maudlin rush that would likely leave her foolishly blubbering.

“I’m ready to drink that champagne now.” She clasped his hand and led him into the bedchamber.

“Will you be naked while we are?”

“Is that how you’d like me to be?”

“Eternally.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“Only since you stumbled into my life.”

“Liar.” She laughed, proceeding to the table laden with food and drink. “I saw how you misbehaved before I came along.”

“And you’ll never let me forget, will you?”

“Maybe in forty or fifty years.”

While she tracked his every move, he opened the champagne and filled one glass, then toasted her. “Here’s hoping it’ll be that long. Or even longer.”

“Here’s hoping,” she echoed.

“I love you.”

Not a man to bandy about the word
love
, it was only the second instance he’d proclaimed himself, and her heart skidded with felicity and bliss. “I love you, too. I always will.”

He tendered the glass so she could take a sip, and he twisted it so he could drink from the same spot on the rim. Then, startling her, he gripped an arm around her waist, and hauled her next to him. Using the stem of the goblet, he pushed down her towel, baring a breast, and she hitched a breath as he dribbled cold champagne across the extended tip, inducing it to pucker even further.

Leaning down, he laved it clean with his tongue, soaked it again, then dropped to his knees and indulged, slowly and exhaustively sucking at her. She adored how his lips toiled, how he dabbled and played. Her womb stirred, her thighs flexed; between her legs, she was moist and inclined to dally.

Sifting her fingers through his hair, she let it fall across her chest. Huddled there over her bosom, he looked sublime, and she rested her hand on his neck, imploring him, urging him on.

Inevitably, he pulled away, and he peered up at her, more wicked and dangerous than usual. He grabbed her
buttocks and spurred her nearer, burying his face in her stomach, inhaling her essence. “You make me so hard.”