And she desired him. He’d awakened something in her that night in the village pub. Now it seemed all she had to do was look at his hands, and her whole body was aware and alive. How she yearned for those hands to touch her again, stroke her, bring her pleasure. But she had not allowed it. She had kissed him and been held by him and stroked him as boldly as she dared, but she had not allowed his hands to wander where she truly wished.
Tonight was the end of the restraint. She had known what he would say when she’d asked how to please him. She had known what he wanted because she wanted it, too, and now, nervous as she was, she must submit.
She glanced in her mirror again and straightened the long, flimsy nightrail she wore. It was white, and she could see the outline of her body beneath the material. She pulled the matching robe closed, but it too was flimsy and did little to preserve her modesty.
She glanced behind her at the door to the hallway beyond. She wondered how many other skittish brides stared at doors tonight, preparing for their husbands to walk through. She wondered if they felt half the fear and exhilaration that she did. She prayed he would not hurt her—her body or her heart—and she prayed she would please him.
A moment later, she heard his soft tapping on their door. It would have been easy then to jump in bed and feign sleep. He would not be angry. Instead, she said, “Come.”
He’d obviously been anticipating this. He carried a bottle of wine and two glasses, which he set down on the bedside table. Then he blew out the lamps so that the room was lit only by candlelight. When he was finished, he poured the wine and held one of the glasses out to her.
“You look lovely,” he said, and she knew he meant it. His gaze traveled over her white silk nightgown and robe appreciatively, and Catherine made a mental note when she was next in the village to thank Mrs. Punch for sending it.
As Valentine did not immediately leap on her when he came into their room, she took another cautious step forward. He remained where he was, holding the wineglass out to her. “I’m not planning to attack you, Catie,” he said finally, still holding both wineglasses. “You are in control.”
She frowned, relieved and annoyed at the same time. How was she supposed to be in control? She did not know what to do. She wanted him to take her and kiss her senseless so that she did not have to think about what she was doing. She wanted to step back and allow this thing to happen to her, not take responsibility for it. But he was obviously not going to allow her that luxury.
He was still holding the wineglasses and, needing fortification, she put aside her fear and went to him, taking one of the glasses in her hand.
Hands free, he now set about removing some of his clothing. With quick efficiency, he stripped off tailcoat, waistcoat, and cravat and opened his shirt at the throat. Her gaze trailed down the snowy white of his shirt to where it ended in the waistband of his charcoal trousers. The trousers were tight, molding to his legs in a way that made her catch her breath.
She’d all but drained the liquid before she heard his low chuckle. She glanced up, gaze meeting his.
“Nervous?” he said.
“No,” she answered immediately, and then swallowed the remaining contents of her glass. She looked at the empty vessel. “Perhaps a little. I-I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” Her cheeks went hot, and she wished she had a hood so that he would not see her blushing yet again.
But he only placed a finger under her chin and notched her gaze back up to his. “What do you want to do? Whatever you want will be right.”
She considered this, embarrassed that she had wants at all, really. Weren’t men supposed to be the sex with wants and desires? But she was here now, and she had to do something if she ever wanted this ordeal to be over. She tried to remember the way she’d felt in the pub, and when her legs grew weak at the memory, she said, “I want you to kiss me.”
Valentine—Quint, rather—smiled and lowered his head, obliging her. But the kiss was not what she wanted. It was quick and perfunctory. She wanted much more. He pulled back and then raised a brow. He made her insides melt when he did that.
“What’s wrong, sweetling? Not what you’d had in mind?”
She shook her head.
“Then you must tell me what you need me to do.” He took a sip of his wine, and then retrieved her glass and set both of them aside.
“I want you to kiss me,” she said again, but when he made to kiss her in much the same way, she stopped him with a hand on his chest. Oh, dear. His skin felt very nice under her fingertips.
“No, not like that,” she managed, though her voice was low and husky. “Kiss me”—she lowered her voice, mortified at the words that were about to escape her lips—“with your tongue.”
She saw those dark mahogany eyes grow even darker at her words, and he bent to do her will.
His tongue entered her lips, mating with hers. She could not stop her entire body from shaking at the sensation of his lips claiming hers.
Her hand, still on his chest, seemed to smolder and catch fire from the heat of him, but as his gentle plundering of her mouth grew more insistent, as he opened her lips and delved inside, she found her hand closing on the material of his shirt and pulling him closer.
And then, just when she had begun to feel so warm and her body had begun to ache so that she needed to rub against him to decrease the building pressure, he stepped back and broke the kiss. She gasped from shock and indignation, but he only lifted his wineglass and drank again.
“What’s wrong?” he said, watching her over the rim of the glass, the liquid red and fiery in his hands. “Was the kiss not to your liking?”
She wet her lips, wanting to speak but feeling the bands of propriety choking her voice. “May I have another?” She indicated her empty glass, and he nodded and went to refill it. She watched him walk across the room, stunned to find herself admiring the way the trousers fit his backside. She remembered how his bottom had looked without those trousers. She licked her lips again.
He turned back and, caught staring, she quickly averted her gaze. He handed her the refilled glass and then took a seat on the bed. She swallowed a good deal more of the red wine than she’d intended before she had the nerve to say, “Will you kiss me again?”
“Is that what you want?” he asked, and she felt like hitting him. Of course, it was what she wanted—that and a great deal more. Why did the obstinate man insist on playing games?
