Forged by Love: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 4 (16 page)

“Tell me if you wish to retire.”

“I will.” She would not. She was stronger than that and retiring to her bed struck her as defeat.

The house was indeed charming, but she took little of it in, except that the countess or her housekeeper was an exacting taskmaster. Although Deirdre ran her finger on more than a few surfaces, it never came up with a speck of dirt on it. Virginie suspected her mother was a little disappointed. But she was sure Deirdre would find something to do. Used to a life of activity, Deirdre would make a place for herself wherever she was.

A shame the countess had guessed Deirdre’s previous position, but at least they could tell her the truth. The explanation would make Deirdre more acceptable to the dowager countess.

Dinner was a full three courses with twelve removes to each course. It took an hour and a half before the cloths were cleared and the dessert course served. Instead of Virginie’s Meissen dishes, they were served on plain ones. After she had partaken sparingly of a lemon cream, the dowager got to her feet.

Then she abruptly sat and gave a titter of a laugh. “Indeed, I’m very sorry,” she said. “How foolish of me! You are the mistress here now, Virginie. You must lead the way to the drawing room.”

She had made it impossible for Virginie to do anything else. She had to leave her husband and take Deirdre and her mother-in-law to the drawing room that was newly upholstered with the fabric Virginie strongly suspected had been meant for her bedroom.

No matter. She would choose another.

Fenton had promised to set a dressing room up for her in the second boudoir attached to Harry’s bedroom. Another small sitting room lay on the other side, so that seemed a reasonable solution to their temporary problem.

Lady Valsgarth apologised profusely for the misunderstanding. “I truly believed the fabric was for refurbishment of the sitting room. I had mentioned it to Harry before he left, and he promised to look for some material for me. I had no idea it was for you.”

But the bed hadn’t been made and few preparations undertaken for her arrival.

Virginie smiled and agreed with her ladyship. “It is for the best. I am tiring of blue. Perhaps I should try a pale green instead. There was a delightful colour in one of the draper’s at the Exchange.
Soupir d’amour
, I think the shopkeeper called it. I’ll write to him, perhaps bespeak all he has.”

The dowager blanched. “That will be expensive.”

“Oh, I think we can afford it,” Virginie drawled. She brightened her smile. “Don’t you?”

“If you say so, my dear.” For the first time, the dowager was visibly disgruntled. Her brows turned down and creases appeared between them, just as quickly erased. “Of course. That would be an excellent solution. I can see that a colour of that nature would become you exceeding well. In fact, are there any colours that would not? For you will forgive me saying, my dear, but you are a most dazzling beauty.”

“Did Harry tell you my other identity? The one I inherited?”

The dowager shook her head.

“I’m Venus.”

Now the dowager’s smile was genuine. “Isn’t that a wonderful thing? I daresay some of the old legends work out, after all. Venus and Vulcan.” She turned her head and met Deirdre’s eyes. “Did you help the affair along?”

“No, of course not. I’m mortal.”

“You were so brave, caring for your daughter. And clever too. Harry told me that your father was a clergyman.”

“A bishop,” Deirdre said. “But he never took part in politics, and his see was in the north, so he was only little known in London. It enabled me to hide.”

The dowager sighed heavily. “If only I had known! I would have done everything possible to help you. It was difficult enough hiding my own son.”

“How did you do it?” Deirdre asked. “Are you immortal?”

Her ladyship spread one hand and studied it, as if she’d never seen it before. “A minor immortal only. My powers are very small. I would have stood no chance if Boscobel had come after me. My late husband was one of his cronies, so I was at the house that terrible day. They kept me in one of the private rooms.” Which would be why Virginie’s mother had not seen her. “My husband died shortly after Harry’s birth, and I was able to persuade Boscobel that Harry was a normal mortal boy, if a little robust. You see, they did not know I am immortal, so I was able to work a little illusion.”

Virginie could guess. There was a blood test. Immortal blood was clear, ichor rather than blood, but early on children learned how to mask that. However, in contact with human skin, ichor was deadly poison. If Boscobel didn’t realise that Lady Valsgarth was immortal, it could work. But she would have been taking an enormous risk. Boscobel would have destroyed her and taken the baby if he’d realised.

That was so brave. But with her only child in danger, a mother would do anything. Or so Virginie had heard. Perhaps one day she’d discover that truth for herself.

Virginie had a lot to thank the dowager for.

Just then Harry entered the room and conversation turned more general, discussing the journey and the house. They were much more cordial for the rest of the evening, helped by the wine that Harry brought through from the dining room. He claimed he was too bored on his own.

He took his usual seat, but lifted the heavy chair with one hand so he could place it next to Virginie’s sofa. His mother sighed and rolled her eyes, but said nothing. No doubt she had the position marked so the servants could restore it exactly.

Virginie loved the effortless strength Harry used to move the chair. She doubted he even noticed the weight.

They didn’t linger for very long. Despite her attempts to appear alert, Harry must have noticed something. Just after the clock struck nine, two hours after he’d entered the room, he got to his feet and held out his hand. “Come, my lady. Time for bed.”

The hot blood rushed under her skin. Her mother and his would know they were getting into the same bed.

His voice sounded clearly in her mind, deep, where nobody else could reach.
“Whose fault is that? Not ours. We are forced into bed together, my dear. Forced.”

She fought to keep the smile off her face.

He took her upstairs, their pace stately. As soon as the door closed on their bedroom, Harry snatched her up in his arms and whirled her around. “Do you know how long I’ve waited?” he asked. “Three miserable days.” He would have said more, but someone cleared her throat.

As always, Fenton was waiting to help her mistress undress.

Not one whit abashed, Harry set Virginie gently down on her feet. “Thank you, Fenton,” he said. The maid glanced at Virginie, who nodded, and with the suspicion of a smile, she left.

Harry was about to discover why Fenton had smiled.

Chapter Sixteen

Ten minutes later, Harry was a confusion of ribbons, pins and hooks. Virginie had worn a frothy pink concoction to dinner, tired of plain dressing. If the various parts of the outfit were not removed in the right order, that was what happened. She had let him, watched him, laughter rising readily to her lips as he struggled manfully to wrestle her from the gown. He’d omitted to take out all the pins that fastened her stomacher to the gown, so the stomacher hung loose. It had twisted and caught in the overskirt, some of the pins getting attached to the ruched robings.

If he ruined the gown, it would be worth it. Virginie couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so much. The gown was in one piece, with deep box pleats shaping it at the back. Harry had searched for some kind of back fastening for fully five minutes before he’d realised there was none. However, her petticoat was fastened to her side-hoops, to prevent it sliding around in wear, so that perplexed him for a while.

“Most men take a woman by throwing up her skirts,” she remarked casually.

“I want you naked,” he growled. “If I have to, I’ll find a knife and cut this godforsaken garment from your body.”

He left the room. As she pulled out a few pins, beginning to make sense of the mess, Harry returned. He carried a large knife, the kind used in hunting, the blade catching the candlelight, glinting silver.

“Harry! You can’t!”

“Yes I can. It would take far too long. And I will not throw up your skirts. Not tonight.” He grinned at her, teeth flashing white. “Another time, my lady. But you need me and then you need your rest. That is, I need you. Damnation!”

The last exclamation as he tugged at her stomacher, which still refused to budge.

He placed the point of the knife under the robings and sliced the gown from neck to hem, freeing the stomacher’s hold. Then he went to work on her sleeves. She felt a mere touch of cold steel, as the fabric parted, revealing her skin. When he would have attacked her lace the same way, she whimpered. “Pray, sir, spare the lace! It’s the best Brussels point, and I’m very fond of it!”

He faced her, knife in hand. “The lace or me?”

Was he serious? “You.” She sighed and extended her arm, offering it to him.

Harry used the knife to slit the row of running stitches fastening the lace to the sleeve of her shift. The ruffles came away intact, and he laid them carefully aside. Then, with a grin, he returned to her. “Turn around.”

Swallowing, she did as he told her. He cut the tapes of her stays by tucking the tip of the blade under the knot at the bottom and slitting upwards. The cool blunt side of the knife rubbed against her, only her shift lying between it and her skin. But the care he took made it feel more like a caress. She shivered. Her stays fell away from her body and tumbled to the floor.

“I’d advise you to buy a stock of stay laces,” he said in a low voice that shook. “I’ll be doing that again.”

The act excited him as much as it had her. “Turn back to me,” he said.

She did so and watched as he bent to remove her shoes, unbuckling them instead of slicing them off. He grasped her ankle and urged her to step out of them. Then he curved his hand around her calf and slid it up to where her garters tied her stockings. With a few flicks they’d gone, and he tugged her stockings off her legs. She lifted first one foot, then the other.

He held her foot in his hand, studying it. “Even this is perfect.” He kissed her ankle, and pressed his thumb into the hollow underneath.

Virginie moaned. Who would have thought that a foot could be the cause of the thrills of excitement pouring through her? He placed her foot down carefully and gazed up at her, like a supplicant, except that he still held that wicked knife in his hand. He used it to slice the front of her shift from hem to neckline. The tearing sound added to the arousal bombarding her senses.

Then, at last, he shoved the remnants of the garment from her and she was completely naked.

She raised her head for his kiss, but he stepped back and studied the results of his handiwork. With a smile softening his features, he studied her from her toes to the top of her head. “I will never tire of looking at you,” he murmured.

When he moved forward, she stepped back. “Your turn. I won’t cut your clothes from you. I’m not as handy with a knife and I’d be too afraid I’d slip. But I want to see you naked, husband. Completely.”

A shadow crossed his face and he shook his head. “You don’t. You would not like what you see.”

She made a sound of derision. “You think a weak leg will deter me?”

“Virginie, you are perfection. I am so far from that.”

“Which is what makes you perfect. Besides, who is to say what I would have been without the goddess? It’s that part of me that keeps me this way, I know that. I never had a pimple, my wounds heal without a scar and although I eat heartily I never add a pound to my weight. I could be spotty and fat, if it weren’t for Venus. Would you still want me?” She laughed at his hesitation, masking her hurt.

“Yes.” His fervent affirmation appeased her constant concern. “Yes, Virginie, I would. You have a fine mind, and you make me laugh and think. Physically, yes, I would still want you.”

Did he mean it? Could he? Hardly daring to believe him, she still refused to let him come to her. “You may look at me while you disrobe, but I want you naked.” She did. Surely the woman should be shy, not the man? But his way of undressing her had released something within her. Nudity was a natural state, and she felt that deeply. Let others be ashamed of their bodies. She never would.

Slowly, Harry removed his coat and dropped it carelessly, so unlike his usual penchant for neatness. The heavy garment fell to the floor with a thump. Then his waistcoat, with its twenty buttons, not all of them fastened, but enough to hamper his progress. He took his time, perhaps waiting for her to tell him to stop. But she would not. She folded her arms under her breasts, plumping them up.

His gaze fixed on her nipples. They tightened under his fiery gaze. Her clitoris tingled, and her juices flowed to dampen the tops of her thighs. She widened her stance. Cool air touched the wetness and she shivered with pleasure.

Harry tore away his neckcloth and then pulled his shirt over his head, revealing the mouth-watering chest with its slabs of muscle. His shoulders were impossibly broad, supports for her hands, the flesh gleaming with health and vigour.

His movements grew more hesitant as he unfastened the buckles at the side of his breeches and his shoes. He stepped out of the shoes. “I wear padding on one leg to even them up,” he said.

“Go on.” She kept her face deliberately unemotional, although her heart was in her throat by now. Not that she doubted herself, but she wanted to see everything. This was her husband and she needed this. “Nothing hidden, Harry.”

He nodded and lowered his gaze, slipping the buttons of the fall of his breeches undone. He shoved them off and took his underwear and stockings with them, bending to push them to the floor. He remained, as if performing an exercise, his fingers touching the floor before, with a convulsive jerk, he pushed away and stood.

She studied him, taking her time. From his shoulders to the magnificent column of his erect cock, to his thighs he was a perfect specimen. His deity would take care of any scars he might have collected.

His right leg was in keeping with the rest of his body. Enormously powerful, with a long, broad foot. His left foot pointed forward, but she guessed that was by an effort of will. The calf was tense with strain, the muscle withered, twisting the leg. As if someone had taken the lower part of his left leg and wrung it, like a housekeeper wringing a cloth dry.

“Now what do you think?” he demanded.

“That I’m so shallow that I would be deterred by a damaged leg? How could you, Harry?” Without hesitation she stepped forward and touched it, spread her palm over the muscle. “Were you born that way?”

“No, I was born perfect. By the time I was seven, it is as you see. My mother knew it was pointless to mend it.”

“So she didn’t even try?”

His mouth tightened. “She tried a few times, but it always returned to what you see. Deformed.”

“You can support yourself on it.”

“Yes, though I favour my right leg.”

She smoothed her hand lower, over his calf. What muscle there was tensed. “Does it hurt?”

“Not when you do that.” She caressed it some more. He groaned. “Stop. This should not arouse me.”

“Why not?” She was kneeling now. Extending her senses, she picked up his emotions. Tension, certainly, but she also sensed a powerful arousal. Lifting her gaze, she got no further than his cock. It reared before her, a physical demonstration of the word “phallic”. Its darker colour and the shiny head displayed his virility proudly. A drop of clear liquid escaped from the tip. His aroma surrounded her. With a groan of surrender, she leaned forward and licked it off.

It tasted good.

With one hand on his calf and the other on the floor to balance herself, she sucked him in, or as much as she could. The head hit the back of her throat and she choked. With a murmur, he drew back, but she leaned forward more and kept sucking. It felt good, as long as she didn’t try to take too much.

He moaned. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes I do.”
She wanted to. What she was doing made him happy, and she could use it to encourage him. As he sucked him, she ran her tongue around the flange and the tip. At the same time, caressed his leg in long, soothing strokes.

They would have been soothing if she hadn’t been sucking him at the same time.

He tunnelled his fingers into her hair, lifting the strands, threading them through his fingers, and pressing his fingertips against her skull. He didn’t control her actions, so she must be doing something right.

“You’re doing
everything
right.” Either he’d picked up on her anxiety or he sensed her uncertainty. Either way, his reassurance was exactly what she needed.

She continued to caress him and to lick him, appreciating his texture and heat. Closing her eyes, she found a rhythm, one she could keep in time with her hand on his leg. If she associated the caresses with this experience, he would not be so reticent in revealing his body in the future. And she loved his body, even the less than perfect parts. Exploring him was proving so delicious.

Addictive.

The word made her pause, but only momentarily. The noises he made were growing less human, more animal in nature. She loved all of them, the deep groans that vibrated in his chest, the sighs that gusted over her now decidedly tousled hair. He murmured her name several times. She loved that too.

His cock hardened even more, and he gasped and flinched, pulling back from her in a decided manner. “No. I want you to come too.”

Before she could protest, he put his hands under her arms and hauled her up. “Legs around me. Now.”

Lifting her feet, she curled them around his waist. He supported her with his hands under her bottom, and touched her. “You are so wet, my lady. Did that excite you as much as it did me? That would be impossible.”

He brought her down until his shaft breached her. He didn’t stop until he had penetrated her completely. She looked down. His pubic hair was meshed with hers, dark and blonde. She’d never seen such a lovely sight, and she’d seen the glories of Versailles. This was better.

He took a pace, urging her back against the heavy baluster support at the bottom of the bed. He growled. “Kiss me.”

Pressing her breasts against him, she touched her mouth to his as he took her for a deep, hard, ride. Clasping her legs around his waist, she clung on, kissing him as he drove deeply into her, pumping hard and fast. She broke the kiss and leaned back in his arms, completely secure. He held her with no seeming effort, thrusting into her body, pushing her higher and higher. Thrills chased each other up her spine, heating her, so that every hair on her head seemed to stand on end, prickling her scalp. She squirmed, worked her way down, until he growled her name and held her steady while he took her as he wanted her.

And she could do nothing to stop him. That notion drove her higher, the currents of arousal increasing until she wanted to burst out of her own skin.

He cried her name, and then something else. “Scream for me, Virginie. Let me know how hard you come. Let me feel you contract around me. Hard, Virginie.”

His words tipped her over the edge and she found herself crying his name. She shrieked as hard as she could, since he’d given her permission to do just that. She’d never let herself go so thoroughly before, never allowed herself that amount of freedom. She’d always controlled herself, kept her impulses in hand.

Except for Marcus.

Harry held her, roared and pushed her down hard, his seed pumping from him into her body, the deepest part of her.

They stayed in the same position for some time. She leaned against him, her legs still around his waist, while they recovered their breath and their senses. Then he took her to the bed, a matter of a few steps. He lurched unevenly, although she never felt anything less than safe.

Leaning forward, he deposited her gently on the turned-down sheets, then climbed in next to her and took her into his arms. He traced a finger down the side of her face. “So, my lady.”

“So, my lord.”

“Do you think you can bear such attentions in the future?”

“I think so.” She felt warm and happy, her usual edginess dissipated by the power of her orgasm. “Yes.” Definitely. He made her soft and warm and wanted.

“This can’t be new to you.”

It was. “You mean this part?” She hugged him. “My late husband preferred to perform his duty and leave. Marcus and I never had a peaceful moment. We were driven, both of us.”

“Hmm. I thought I was,” he said. “Driven, that is.” He sounded drowsy.

“Not like that.” She and Marcus had fallen on each other the minute they could. Towards the end they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. They had to touch. Society saw it as a scandal. At the time she’d found the experience exhilarating and shockingly exciting. Now she saw it as sordid and unfortunate.