The Making of a Duchess (29 page)

   Almost without thinking, she put her shaking arms about his shoulders and kissed him back, wanting to possess him as eagerly as he sought to possess her.

   This was her husband, she realized. This man belonged to her and no other.

   
"Je t'adore," he murmured. His mouth moved to he
r throat, and the touch of his lips sent heat shooting into her belly. Now her trembling was not from uncertainty.

   Her hands moved over his back, her fingers tracing the corded muscles that bunched and strained with the force of his own restraint. She could feel him shaking, trying to control his desire for her. For some reason that made her want him even more. Her breathing began to come more quickly, quickening even more when the hands around her waist skimmed up to her breasts and cupped them.

   She moaned aloud, and then clamped her lips shut: mortified.

   He met her gaze and chuckled. "So you like that, do you?"

   "Um—" She did not know how to answer, did not want to sound wanton.

   "Let's see how you like this."

   He must have loosened the fastenings on the back of her gown at some point as they lay beside one another, because he easily slipped the material down off her shoulders. It was a simple matter then to pull the garment down farther until he exposed her stays.

   She had worn a pair of stays that tied in the front so she could dress herself and not have to explain to Katarina why she needed that maid's gown. Now it served Julien's advantage.

   With a deft flick of two fingers, he loosened the stays and pushed them aside. Now only her plain, white shift covered her breasts. The material was thin and fine, little protection. If the room had not been so dark, he would have been able to see right through it.

   Slowly, his eyes still on her face, he ran a hand over her breasts, allowing his fingers to dip into the ruffled edge of the shift.

   Under the material, her skin burned as his hands touched her. Where his fingers met exposed skin, she was scorched.

   Another moan escaped, and she gasped in horror. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

   "I like it,
chérie
. I want to know what you like."

   "But the men on the ship—they'll hear."

   "Then we'll be very quiet," he whispered against her neck, then stroked a thumb over the curve of her breast. "Tell me what you like."

   She took a deep breath. "I-I like this."

   "What if I pull this chemise down and kiss you— here?" His finger circled one erect nipple, making it peak and strain. "Do you think you'd like that,
ma belle
?"

   "Oh, yes," she breathed, already aching.

   Slowly, far too slowly, he eased the material over her breasts. She could feel the cool air brush her skin, and she had never felt such reckless abandonment.

   And then he lowered his mouth. His tongue raked over the sensitive skin, teasing one nipple while his finger tantalized the other. Heat rushed to her belly and pooled lower, and she writhed, aching for… something. She did not know what she wanted.

   "More." She did not realize she had actually spoken aloud until she heard him chuckle, his warm breath teasing her already sensitive skin.

   "I'd like to do more," he said, looking into her eyes. She loved it when he looked at her. His gaze was so full of desire.

   And that desire was all for her. She could hardly believe it.

   "But you'll have to take off this gown first."

Julien thought she might rebel at that suggestion. A look of pure panic streaked across her face. He had tried to move slowly, to make her want him as much as he wanted her, but he obviously had not moved slowly enough.

   Damn it! He should have been more patient. The problem was that he was as hard as granite and aching to be inside her. Those little moans she kept making were driving him insane with need.

   But whatever happened tonight—even if it was nothing more than this—he refused to toss up her skirts and take her that way. He wanted this to be intimate and memorable—their first time as husband and wife.

   "Sarah?"

   Silence. She was looking up at him, and he could see that a hundred thoughts flitted through her mind each second.

   "Why don't you allow me to help you take off that gown?"

   "But what about the sailors?"

   "What about them? They're outside."

   "They might hear."

   "I told you," he whispered, standing then pulling her beside him. "We'll be very quiet."

   To his disappointment, when she stood, she tugged her shift up over her breasts. She was supposed to be taking clothes off, not putting them back on. He should not have paused, allowed her to remember modesty. It was a good thing he had not asked Stalwart for a lamp. She would only feel more self-conscious in the light.

But, oh, how he ached to see her—truly see her.

   She turned now so her back was to him, and he realized her hair had come undone. The dark tresses fell over the back of her gown like a river of chocolate. He reached out, took the hair in his hand and ran it through his fingers. He pushed it over one shoulder, then leaned forward and kissed her neck, inhaling her scent. He did not know what it was, something light and delicious. She was apples and cinnamon.

   Intoxicating.

   His hands made quick work of her laces, and the gown slid over her hips and puddled on the floor. He reached around and gently finished unlacing her stays so they too fell in a heap on the floor.

   It was only then he realized she was shaking.

   "Are you cold?" he asked.

   "No," she answered, not looking at him.

   He turned her to face him and winced at the fear he saw in her face. She was terrified of him. Or perhaps not him, but of the act itself. Disappointment shot through him. He could not make love to her this way, not when she was in this state.

   He supposed it was understandable. Most brides had months to contemplate and prepare for the wedding night. She had mere hours.

   "Come here," he said, taking her into his arms. She obeyed, but he felt her trembling grow worse. "Shh." He smoothed her hair and tried not to notice how soft her body was or how well it fit with his. "I'm just going to hold you."

   "I-I'm sorry," she stuttered through chattering teeth. "I just need a moment."

   "Take all the time you want." In fact, that was an idea with merit. Why not have her come to him? Why not tease and tantalize until she ached for him as much as he did her? He smiled and said, "I'm tired. Why don't we just go to sleep?"

   She glanced up at him sharply. Was that disappointment in her face? "But I thought you wanted to—"

   He waited, wondering what phrase she would use, but she only gestured helplessly at the berth.

   "I do." He cupped her cheeks. "Sarah, I
really
do. But we're moving too fast for you." It was an effort not to smile. His little wife wanted him more than she was ready to admit.

   "I'll be alright—"

   "
Bien sûr, but not tonight. We have the rest of ou
r lives. I want you to want me as much as I want you."

   "I
do
want you. I-I just don't know what that means."

   He grinned. "I'll be happy to give you a lesson, little governess, but only when you're ready."

   "I'm ready." She sounded eager, which he liked. He liked it so much that he almost abandoned his plan all together.

   But he had willpower—at least he hoped he did. He could wait. Especially if waiting would enhance the pleasure. "Are you?" He brushed his fingers through her hair. "French lovemaking is very different from English lovemaking,
chérie
. In France, we move very"—he traced her cheek, her lips— "very"—he parted her lips and inserted his thumb gently—"slowly."

   Her eyes were huge with desire, and he knew he could have had her now, if that was what he wanted. But he rather liked this game, rather wanted her to pursue him.
"Comprenez-vous?"

   "
Oui
, but—"

   "
Bonne nuit, chérie.
Until tomorrow." He brushed a delicate kiss on her forehead, over the wrinkles formed when she frowned, then gestured to the berth.

   With slumped shoulders and a reluctant sigh, she climbed into the berth, scooted up against the wall, and then he climbed in, once again raising his arm and offering his shoulder. This time she moved to lie against him eagerly. He smiled—already he had made progress.

   Of course, now that she wore only her chemise, he could feel all the soft curves of her body distinctly. He could imagine the weight of her breasts in his hands, the taste of her creamy skin in his mouth.

   He bit back a groan and focused his gaze on the ceiling. He was tired and knew sleep would come.

   Eventually.

   Sleep, he welcomed. It was the dreams—dreams of her moans of pleasure and her body's response to him—he dreaded.

   He closed his eyes and forced himself to count ugly sheep.

Sarah endured the torment for two days and two nights. At first she had liked the idea of waiting to consummate the marriage. She was nervous and told herself she needed time to prepare. But after sleeping beside Julien all night, feeling his body hot and solid against hers, she was ready to proceed.

   But Julien was intent on moving slowly, and the man had the patience of a hunting lion. He would bring her just to the point of exquisite pleasure and then back away. By the third day, her body was in a constant state of yearning, and she was determined to satisfy that yearning—one way or another. It did not matter that it was broad daylight or the crew members might hear them. She wanted Julien.

   By that time, their days had begun to take on a routine. Sarah, who had never slept past dawn in all her life, dozed until late morning and actually enjoyed the rest. Julien woke up early and went on deck. He would return, take her for a stroll about the ship, and then they would have a light lunch, usually with Captain Stalwart and his first mate.

   In the afternoons, if Julien went on deck again, Sarah read something from Stalwart's library—he had a good collection—or joined Julien. If the weather was poor, they would stay in their cabin and play cards or tell stories.

   But this afternoon would be different, she vowed, and after lunch, she took Julien's hand and pulled him to their cabin. She had not been able to eat a bite of the fare Captain Stalwart provided. Her stomach was twisted in knots of anticipation, and she could hardly believe she was being so bold. But this seemed the only way. And, she suspected this was what Julien wanted.

   He raised a brow at her brazenness but did not argue. Once she closed their cabin door behind him, he said, "What's this?"

   "I'm tired of walking about on the deck." She stepped forward, took his coat in both hands and tugged it off his shoulders. He watched her lazily, his eyes turning that dark shade of blue she loved.

   "I suppose we could play a game of cards," he drawled.

   "Oh, no." She flicked his cravat loose then undid the fastenings at his throat. "I have a different game in mind."

   "What's that?" His voice was husky now, heavy with need. She liked that, and she knew she could provoke him further. She skimmed her hands beneath his waistband and tugged his shirt free, pulling it over his head in one motion.

   She almost lost her breath then. Seeing Julien without his shirt was enough to leave her mouth dry and her hands shaky. She ran a hand over his chest then turned her back to him. She wanted to touch him with more than just the skin of her hands. She wanted to feel his heat over every inch of her.

   "Unfasten me," she said, glancing at him over her shoulder. "I want to touch you. Skin on skin."

   She caught his sudden intake of breath and felt the tremor in his hands as he slowly unfastened her gown. When it was loose, she shrugged it off and stepped out of it. Now she stood in only her shift and her stays, and she took pleasure in raising a hand to her breasts then deftly flicking the stays open.

   Julien's eyes followed her every movement, growing darker blue as the stays fell away and revealed the shape of her breasts under the thin shift. She was shaking now, nervous from this last gesture. She reached for the material, raised it slowly, intending to pull it over her head so she was naked before him, but he grasped her hands and pulled her into a warm embrace.

   "Remember what I told you,
chérie
." He kissed her neck, ran his hands leisurely down her back, cupped her buttocks. "Take it slowly.
Lentement."

   "I can't take it any slower," she moaned, kissing his neck and allowing her own hands to roam over his back and shoulders. "I
need
you."

   He groaned, and his lips met hers in a barely controlled kiss. The contact between them now was primal, almost savage, and she could hear her breath growing ragged and the small mewing sounds escaping. She pushed against him, knowing she wanted more, needing to feel more.

   His lips claimed hers, and then the world around them exploded.

   She was on the cabin floor before she even knew what had happened. The ship had been rocked hard, and she slammed into the wood planks. She tried to rise, but Julien was above her, shielding her with his body.