How to Woo a Reluctant Lady (28 page)

“Hold on,” he murmured, then gave a decided push that planted him inside her to the hilt.

She felt a faint burning, but it was over quickly. “Was that it?” she asked.

“What?” He drew back to look at her. The faint sheen of sweat on his brow and the muscle ticking in his jaw told her he was fighting for control.

“My maidenhead. Is it gone?”

“I imagine so,” he bit out. “Minerva, I want to move. I have to move.”

“All right. It’s fine.”

He laughed. “That’s my wife.” He brushed a kiss over her forehead. “But now the good part begins.”

He began moving. Inside her. How . . . intimate, the most intimate thing she’d ever known. Giles was joined to her so thoroughly that she didn’t know who was moving, him or her or both at once.

He drove into her with slow, silky thrusts that left her breathless. It felt odd at first, then became quite warming, and soon that strange whisper of a tingling began again down below, making her squirm. Whenever she squirmed, the tingling intensified until it grew into a dark and atavistic thrill.

Lord, but that was . . . actually quite good.

“Better?” he asked, his voice low, guttural.

“Oh yes.”

His triumphant smile speared her. “I thought it might be.”

Once he was satisfied that she was finding more enjoyment by the moment, he deliberately acted to heighten her pleasure. He kissed her deeply, heatedly. He fondled her breast, then slid his hand down to finger the place where they were joined until she was gasping and aching and dragging her fingernails along the bunched muscles of his shoulders.

Then inexplicably he slowed his thrusts.

“Giles . . . please . . .”

He pressed his mouth to her ear, his breathing coming in quick, hard gusts. “What do you . . . want, minx?” he rasped. “Do you want . . . me to stop?”

“No!” She could feel the tension rousing again, his every thrust like a fiddler tightening a string, winding it until it shivered with the promise of music.

He tongued her ear. “Are you ready . . . for more?”

“Yes. Lord, yes!”

He nipped her earlobe, sending a frisson of excitement along her nerves. “Then hold on, sweet nymph, and we’ll finish this.”

So she did. He quickened his pace again, pounding into her, every stroke another tightening of the string. Soon she was arching up to meet his thrusts, her feet now locked behind his knees. She felt the humming of the tautening string, hovering on the edge of her consciousness, making her strain toward it. . . .

“Oh, God, Minerva . . . my darling . . . my wife . . .”

Suddenly, it was as if the string was plucked, and a note sang high and sweet, piercing her with pleasure, making her cry out and clasp him to her as her body vibrated with the intensity of
her release.

Then with a strangled groan, he drove deep into her to reach his own release. Giving a shudder that rocked them both, he spilled his seed inside her.

And as her body thrilled to the ecstasy, as he collapsed atop her, his warm body enveloping hers, she realized she couldn’t lie to herself any longer.

She loved him. She’d never stopped loving him. She’d just been angry with him for a while. Worse yet, now that he was hers, she knew she’d never be happy until she’d made him love her, too.

And she feared that might prove impossible.

G
ILES GLANCED OVER
at his wife to see if she was asleep yet. She was, and she slept very fetchingly, too. She did everything fetchingly. That was the trouble. She’d wriggled under his skin when he wasn’t looking, and now he didn’t know what to do about it.

He’d seen the heartache his brother had gone through when love had first seized him by the balls. Giles wasn’t going to allow that. A man should never let himself be driven to madness by a woman—that’s when he made mistakes that cost him dearly.

And Minerva was just the sort of female to attempt riding roughshod over her husband. Clearly she’d run roughshod over her entire family for quite some time.

She gave a little sigh in her sleep, and something caught in his throat. He scowled. He was going to have to watch this. He wanted her far too much. He
liked
her far too much. Better be careful.

But he didn’t want to be careful. He wanted to sink into marriage with her and drown there. If he didn’t maintain
control of this situation, everything would go to hell.

Which was why, much as he wanted to join Minerva in sleep, he couldn’t. He had work to do yet.

Leaving the bed, he pulled on his clothes and went to his study. Ravenswood had promised to send over the letter Newmarsh had written. Sure enough, there it was on his desk, waiting for him in a sealed envelope. He broke the seal to read it before he set off for Calais.

They
set off for Calais. With a groan, he set the letter down. He’d managed not to flat out lie to her so far, but once they reached Calais . . .

No, somehow he would manage it. He would meet with Newmarsh at the man’s lodgings, and he would do it without Minerva knowing or fretting over it.

“What are you doing?”

Steeling himself to show no surprise, he glanced up to see Minerva standing there, dressed in nothing but her thin shift. Her hair hung in a tangle to her waist, and the swells of her breasts were plainly visible.

His blood surged again in his loins. This was exactly what he worried about—that just seeing her made him want to unburden every secret in his soul.

“I thought you were sleeping,” he said, “and I have a few business matters to attend to before we leave tomorrow, so I came down here.”

“I think I roused the minute you opened the door,” she said with a soft smile that fired his blood. “I’m a light sleeper. It’s been the curse of my life.” She leaned against the doorframe. “Celia can sleep through a hailstorm, but even a gentle rain wakes me.”

Was that a warning to him? Or just a statement of fact?

Knowing her, it was probably both.

She didn’t look the least bit changed by their lovemaking. She still bore that air of complete self-assurance that said nothing would keep her from being herself. No
man
would, anyway.

But then, he liked that about her.

“Go back to bed, darling,” he said. “I’ll be there shortly.”

She cast him a sultry look that set his blood afire. “Don’t be too long.”

When she left, he laid his head back against the chair and cursed Ravenswood long and loud. He wanted to be done with this. He didn’t want to have to hide things anymore, especially from her.

I am trying to trust you, but you are making it awfully difficult.

He wanted her to trust him. And if she ever found out he’d broken his promise to her—

She mustn’t, that’s all. He merely had to do this one thing. Then the whole sordid business would be behind him, and he wouldn’t have to worry about her letting something slip or creep into her books that might unmask him.

Just look at how David had suffered after Charlotte had written those cruel things about him that had ended up in the papers. Granted, she hadn’t meant that to happen, and she’d misunderstood the situation in the first place, but it had blackened David’s name for a long while.

Women let their emotions guide them, and it got them into trouble. Giles had seen his family be dragged through scandal one too many times—he wasn’t going to let it happen yet again because of him.

So he’d just have to pray he could keep his secrets for a couple of days more.

The next day Minerva and Giles arrived in Calais at ten in the evening. They then worked their way through the customs house and the police station to have their bags examined and their passports stamped. It was well after midnight when they reached the Hotel Bourbon, where they ate a quick dinner consisting of a roast chicken, a sweet omelet, and some very fine wine. By the time they got to bed, they were too tired to do anything but collapse into sleep.

The church bells calling parishioners to morning mass awakened Minerva early. She lay there a moment listening, then laughed to herself when she realized the bells were playing a waltz. Only in France.

The sound must be coming from that Notre Dame church Giles had mentioned. She’d seen enough of the town the night before to pique her interest, and she wouldn’t mind visiting the church. But when she turned over to ask Giles about it, she found him still asleep.

A smile crossed her lips. He was such a sound sleeper. And a neat one, too. She always churned her bedsheets while she slept, taking her rest by fits and starts. But from what she’d seen of him after two nights of marriage, Giles fell into one spot, lying on his back, and stayed there until something or someone forceful roused him.

Should she attempt to wake him? Or perhaps . . . A slow smile curved up her lips. Why not take a peek at his “thing”
while he slept? She’d been too nervous on their wedding night to notice anything but how large it was, and she was curious to see it in its natural state.

Carefully she raised his nightshirt. She would have to get his drawers open somehow. Did she dare? What would he do if he woke to find her being so free with him?

Well, he was her husband after all. She should be able to look at him whenever she wished, right?

She touched the first button, then froze, surprised to find him hardening beneath her hand. So much for seeing him in his natural state. She slanted a glance up at him, but his eyes were still closed. So she cautiously unbuttoned his drawers to unveil his member, which grew impressively harder by the moment.

Did men do these things in their sleep, for goodness sake? That seemed rather alarming. What must it be like to awaken with one’s flesh sticking up, quite by accident?

Now that she had his drawers entirely opened, his member spilled out to spring to life before her gaze. She examined it with great curiosity. It was such a strange appendage. It wasn’t at all attractive, with its thick veins and bulbous head, yet inexplicably it fascinated her. It was just so . . . reckless and impudent, like a standard men bore into battle with the female sex in another attempt to cow them.

“Enjoying yourself?” said a rumbling male voice, and she jumped.

Heat rose in her cheeks. “Giles! How long have you been awake?”

He flashed her a lazy smile. “Since you lifted my nightshirt.”

She swallowed. “I was just . . . it was only . . .”

“Come here, wife,” he murmured in that husky voice that never failed to turn her knees to pudding.

When she slid up to lie beside him, he kissed her hard, then placed her hand on his very reckless and impudent standard. And that led to his placing
his
hand inside
her
drawers, and before she knew it, she was lying on her back being made love to with great enthusiasm. What a delightful way to begin the day.

And once again, she marveled at how intimate, how
personal
it felt. How could men do this just for enjoyment? For that matter, how could women allow it? She couldn’t imagine letting a man be inside her like this without . . . being in love with him.

Later, as they lay gasping on the bed, he said, “How do I compare to Rockton in the bedchamber?”

She shifted to her side to stare at him. His hair was endearingly mussed, and his cheeks flushed from exertion. He looked adorable. She could still hardly believe he was hers. “What do you mean?” she asked coyly.

“You always describe him as a consummate lover. Did I meet your expectations?”

“You mean, given that I was a virgin and had no more idea of what a consummate lover is than I knew how a spy worked?” At his cocked eyebrow, she laughed. “You know perfectly well that I did. Surely you could tell.”

“I can never be sure of anything with you. And you did have some idea about what to expect, as I recall. You mentioned kissing other men.”

She propped her head up on one hand. “That’s hardly the same.”

He held her gaze a long moment. “You never answered my question during our ‘interview’ about how many men you’d kissed.”

“How many women have you bedded?” she countered. At
his look of chagrin, she said, “You see? Not an easy question, is it?” When he threw his head back against the pillow with a curse, she said, “But if you must know, I kissed very few.” She threw a sop to his male pride. “None who were as good at it as you were, to be sure. After our kiss in the alley, I was spoiled for anyone else.”

“Really?” He stared up at the ceiling. “It seemed to make you angry more than anything else.”

“Not the kiss itself. Just what came after.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “That’s one thing I’ve never understood about that night. I know I was rather harsh with you—”

“You were downright cruel.”

His sideways glance showed clear remorse. “That’s because I knew I couldn’t act on any attraction between us, and I thought it best to make that clear.”

“You made it clear, all right. You said I looked like a tart and acted like a doxy, remember?”

He winced. “I may have overdone it a bit.”

“You made me feel cheap and tawdry and foolish.”

Shifting to face her, he murmured, “I’m sorry. But that’s what I’m trying to understand. I realize you were angry—you had every reason to be. Still, you wrote your first book years after that night. Was your pride still so wounded after all that time? Did you really feel justified in discussing matters that I expressly asked you not to speak of to anyone?”

It wasn’t just that my pride was wounded, you dolt. You broke my heart!

She nearly said it aloud. But he’d had no idea back then how she felt about him, just as he had no idea now how deeply she was coming to feel for him. And telling him might send him into a male panic again.

Besides, it would give him the upper hand, since
he
didn’t have such an intensity of feeling for her. And she didn’t like the idea of Giles having the upper hand and being too sure of her. He was just the sort of fellow to take advantage of that.

“I merely thought that the incident made a good story,” she said lightly. “And what writer can resist using such fodder?”