Forbidden (22 page)

She knew what he was asking and again thought of lying, but the least she could give him was truth. "Not really. But you can," she added. "I don't mind."

He sighed and took one of her hands in his, easing it. She only then realized that she had clenched it into a fist.

Fool, she berated herself.
Fool!

He released her hand and resumed his restless exploration of her body. His hand trembled a little, which was hardly surprising. He must be desperate. What did he
want?

He slid up suddenly to look into her eyes. "What do you like, then?" he demanded.

She had no answer to that peculiar question.

His voice sharpened. "Come on, Serena. Give me a hint. This isn't a game
I
like to play."

She looked down and saw how darkly erect he was. No wonder he was angry. Unable to think of anything else, she reached for him. He slapped her hand away.

"What do you want from me?" she wailed. "I'll do anything."

He groaned, and without another word he pushed her legs apart. In his passion he was clumsy; she put down her hand to guide him and adjusted her hips skillfully to greet him, immensely relieved that they were finally at the point.

His whole body shuddered as he filled her. His eyes closed and he made a sound that was part sigh, part groan. Again his reaction was unlike anything she had seen in Matthew, but it did not crush her joy. This business she knew, and knew well.

She matched his thrusts, watching him carefully, using her muscles and her hands to increase his pleasure. When she'd watched Matthew it had been with disgusted wariness, hoping only to avoid his anger. With Francis it was a pleasure that came close to his ecstasy. She was astonished at how sweet she found his need.

She saw his release coming on him and tightened to slow it, to draw out the moment for herself as well as for him.

His eyes shot open, half pleading, half wondering.

They froze like that, gazes locked and entranced, until she released him to achieve his end.

He cried out and collapsed upon her, trembling and running with sweat. This time there was no bitter leave-taking. Serena stroked his damp curls gently, lovingly, and soothed his raptured body. She couldn't believe how much she had enjoyed pleasing this man, and how much she wanted to do it again.

She wouldn't mind how often he made demands of her, for she finally knew the sweetness of the marriage bed.

Slowly, languorously, he eased up, nipping at her breast as he did. He smiled at her, stroking her tangled hair off her face, but then a frown touched his sated eyes. "What about you?"

"Me?"

"What of your pleasure?"

"I liked that very much." In turn, she stroked his damp ebony curls back and smiled. "Truly, Francis. That was lovely."

The frown did not lift, but he merely dropped a butterfly kiss on her lips. "We'll have to work on it, but not now. I have never been so sweetly exhausted in my life."

He rolled, carrying her with him so she was snuggled in his arms. For a moment she stiffened with shock, for she had never experienced such a thing. But she allowed him to mold her to his body so they melded there, one flesh, in a way quite different from coupling but in many ways sweeter.

Serena felt the fine contours of his body against hers, alive with youth and health, slick with sweat. She could hear his heart beating steadily, could smell an aroma that blended sweat and sex but was amazingly pleasing. Such smells before had nauseated her, but now they were like perfume.

His hand moved gently over her back, bringing a delight such as she had never known, for it spoke to her of tenderness. She began to feel a trace of something new in this man's arms.

She had no name for it, but it was good.

* * *

Francis sensed when his wife drifted into sleep, but he continued his lax exploration of her silken back.

He was finding exhaustion didn't last very long, but he'd be a monster to demand more lovemaking now, especially from a woman who gained so little pleasure from it. He frowned down at her, wondering what he'd done wrong or left undone. Theoretical knowledge was all very well, but the complexity, the wonder of the truth, left him feeling like a child.

A wondering but apprehensive child.

Though he had chosen to avoid casual sex, he had never seen any virtue in ignorance. Nicholas had once remarked that in a time and place where brides were supposed to be innocent, it was a man's duty to be both knowledgeable and wise. Francis had taken the message to heart and educated himself about erotic matters. In addition, talk among the Rogues was frank and he had gained by that.

He obviously hadn't gained enough. Perhaps he would have been wiser to seek out some experienced woman—someone like Blanche—and take lessons. It was clear he was doing something wrong.

Even in his passion, when his control had broken, he had been aware that she had not been with him but had been ministering to him, ministering to him with exquisite skill. That might be what a man wanted of a whore; it wasn't what he wanted in a wife.

Chapter 10

Serena awoke late to the sound of bells and realized it was Sunday. Sunlight streamed through a gap in the curtains, and the mantel clock told her it was gone nine o'clock. Her husband was still beside her, just opening his eyes
.

She considered him cautiously. "I am not usually such a slugabed, I assure you."

He smiled. "Perhaps I am."

Heartened, she smiled back. "For some reason, I don't believe that. I suppose we should attend church."

"Assuredly."

Serena found she was feeling unusually happy. Not deliriously so, for the future was still full of uncertainties, but happy to have a solid foundation for her life, that foundation being this man.

He wouldn't abandon her. She knew that now.

And she didn't think he would abuse her.

He caught a tendril of her hair and wound it around his finger. "I think perhaps we both needed a good rest. I've been traveling for days, and you must have been in some anxiety."

She looked down at his strong brown hand. "It hasn't been easy."

"I would have come more quickly if Aunt Arabella had been specific."

Serena decided not to tell him why Arabella had been vague. He would be hurt, for he was a good man. She was unaccustomed to good men but was perfectly willing to learn.

He released her hair. "Since you are the one unaccustomed to being a slugabed, I think you should rise first."

She eyed him. "Why?"

"I want to ogle you."

At his mock leer, she laughed and sprang out of bed to stand before him. "Ogle, sir. Soon I will look like an inflated bladder."

"I don't think so," he said absently as he studied her. "Lord, but you're beautiful. You are perfectly formed...."

She interpreted the look in his eyes. "It is not so late..."

He flushed, as if caught in some crime. "Yes, it is. Arabella has probably been up for hours. Stop tempting me, wife, and put on your shift at least."

Confused, Serena pulled on her knee-length shift and glanced at him. "Better?"

"Only a little," he said dryly, climbing out of bed.

As he walked to the chair upon which he had placed his clothes, Serena stole the chance to study him. He turned and caught her at it, but smiled slightly. "And do I please you?" he asked.

"You are beautiful," she said, and meant it. He was all lithe elegance and long, strong muscles, and he moved with exceptional grace.

He colored slightly. "Hardly that. I'm a skinny sort of fellow."

"I don't think so."

Clearly embarrassed, he turned away to dress.

Serena found she was victim to an almost overpowering compulsion to fondle his muscular buttocks. She saw them disappear into his drawers with great regret.

This was most peculiar.

She sighed and turned to attend to her own dress.

They maided and valeted each other, and though nothing was said, Serena thought that they both found pleasure in serving and being served. Such little things, but so important.

She had never wanted Matthew's attentions of any kind.

Francis brushed out her hair with all the gentleness of a good maid, and Serena almost purred like a cat.

"Like that, do you?" he asked softly, watching her in the mirror.

She could not deny it.

"I will learn," he said. "I will learn what makes you melt, Serena, and melt you thoroughly."

She almost protested, for she was not consciously withholding anything from him, but she sensed what he meant. Unfortunately, she knew that the surrender he wanted was not, could not be, deliberate. As he gave her the brush and she began to fasten up her hair, Serena wondered if she were capable of being the kind of wife he wanted, or whether Matthew Riverton had killed that woman during those eight years of slavery.

When they emerged for breakfast, Arabella gave them both a searching look but said nothing. As Francis had expected, Arabella had already eaten, and so they did not dawdle over their breakfast. Afterward, they walked over to the handsome church and attended the Sunday service, and then they went on their way.

The journey to London was soon accomplished.

As they passed through the rural outskirts of the city, Serena gazed out the window in fascination and trepidation. She saw vast market gardens being prepared to grow food for the masses of people who lived in London. She saw rows of smart new houses swallowing up farmland. She saw manufactories making the thousand and one things needed by people here and elsewhere.

Soon they were in the city proper. It was an exciting place but frightening, not just because of its size and bustle, but because it was the place where she would have to act as Lady Middlethorpe. Moreover, she suddenly realized, it was just the sort of place where she might meet someone who had known her as Matthew Riverton's well-trained wife.

Only a handful of men and a few of the demimonde had been invited to visit Stokeley Manor, but those men had mostly been of the upper ten thousand—the sort with whom Matthew had wanted to curry favor. She suspected that they ranked somewhere after nine thousand nine hundred ninety and would not be considered at all respectable, but it was possible she might meet one of them here. If such a man gossiped about what had gone on at Stokeley, Society would turn its back.

All in all, mother-in-law or not, Serena would much rather have been arriving at Francis's country home. Instead, the chaise drew up in front of 32 Hertford Street, a handsome, stuccoed, double-fronted house with gleaming windows and a polished brass knocker on the door. This told Serena that Francis must have sent word ahead that he was expected.

To confirm her belief, the black lacquered door swung open and a number of servants emerged to minister to their master. They showed no apparent surprise at the existence of a new Viscountess Middlethorpe.

The interior of the house proved to be as pleasant and well maintained as the exterior. The spacious hall was tiled, and sprinkled with tasteful ornaments and paintings. A handsome oak staircase rose in front of her, then broke into two sinuous curves. She was gently steered past curtsying and bowing servants up those stairs.

Arabella and Francis were chatting of minor matters, but Serena was absorbed by the massive portrait that loomed over the central landing where the stairs divided. It showed two stately people who could only be Francis's parents twenty or so years ago.

His father appeared quite pleasant; there was something about the expression in his brown eyes that reminded Serena of Francis. His mother looked dauntingly gracious. Her beauty came from a rather fearsome projection of good bones and color, and even in oils on canvas, she was alarming.

Serena was frozen there. Francis gently pulled her onward. "Monstrous, isn't it? It needs to be hung in an enormous chamber where one only need view it from a distance."

"They look a fine couple."

"I suppose so. My father was more energetic than he appears there, but it is a good likeness of my mother. She still looks much the same after twenty years."