Chapter 1
Miss Charlotte Fairchild would not marry just any man. In fact, she didn’t much mind if she never married at all, but she was genuinely happy for her best friend in all the world, Lady Chelsea Hurtle.
“Can you believe he finally proposed?” Chelsea said with a squeal. She clasped her hands in front of her heart and grinned. “I shall be Lady Leming by the end of the summer!”
“It has only been six months since you began courting,” Charlotte said with a giggle.
“And that is quite long enough, thank you very much,” Chelsea replied, her chest puffed out. “You know that I was tiring of the hunt for a husband. It took me far longer than I’d anticipated when I first debuted.”
Catkins from the willow tree draped all around them, shielding them from the view of Lord Hurtle’s London townhouse and shading them from the sun. It had been their favorite spot in the garden ever since they were little girls, their own little secret haven, and even now, as young ladies, the pair hid in there to discuss their loves and their lives, their hopes and their dreams.
“Was it terribly romantic?” Charlotte asked. “The proposal, I mean. Lord Leming strikes me as the romantic type.”
“Oh, it was,” Chelsea beamed. “We were in the park. We’d had a lovely picnic—all the best quality foods prepared by his cook—and then we took a walk by the lake. He got down on one knee and pulled a diamond ring from a little blue pouch, the rippling water cooling the air beside us. Oh, Charlotte. He said the kindest things.”
“As well he should,” Charlotte said. “He is smitten with you and no mistake.”
“Yes. I am lucky to have found such a man.” Chelsea crossed her legs on the soft earth, fiddling with the broken bits of tree that scattered the ground.
“There is nothing lucky about it.” Charlotte ran her fingers through her long chestnut brown hair as she spoke. “He proposed to you because you will make him an excellent wife—beautiful and bright and a wonderful conversationist.”
Chelsea leaned closer, excitement written across her features. “And it wasn’tonlyromantic,” she said. The words came out in a hushed whisper, even though no one was around to hear her.
“What do you mean?” Charlotte asked. She knew exactly what her friend meant, but she wanted to hear the words. If she did not get to experience it for herself, then she at least wanted to listen to stories about it.
“At one point in our walk,” Chelsea whispered, “we ended up in the woods.”
Charlotte gasped, “All alone?”
“Quite alone,” Chelsea confirmed. “I stopped to admire the trees, when Lord Leming kissed me.”
“Oh my,” muttered Charlotte. Her hand fluttered around her throat, briefly touching her bare collarbones. She had dreamed of being kissed by men in the woods. Kissed and caressed.
“But it was unlike any kiss he has previously given me,” Chelsea said with a giggle. “It was hungry, like he couldn’t resist me.”
Charlotte giggled too, picturing the scene. “What happened? Did you kiss him back?”
“Of course I did,” Chelsea said. “Can you believe he pushed me up against the tree? It was rough and urgent, but I liked it.” Another giggle. “As he kissed me, he pushed his entirebody against mine, and I could feelitthrough his trousers. He was truly delighted, if you catch my meaning?”
“It?” Charlotte asked. Again, she understood perfectly well, but she wanted to hear the words. Wanted to relive a moment she had not yet lived.
“His manhood,” Chelsea said, giggling yet again. “It was so big and determined, Charlotte. Honestly, it was the first time I’ve truly felt it. It prodded into my leg like it was searching for something.”
“Itwassearching for something,” Charlotte said.
She forced a giggle to join her friend, but the truth was, her body responded to the tale in kind. At three-and-twenty, Charlotte Fairchild remained untouched. Virginal. Innocent to everyone who saw her, except those who truly knew her mind. She had no desire to find a man, except to experience that one thing which would turn her into a real woman.
That one secret thing, the connection, that physical yearning, was the only thing missing from her life. Oh, of course, she teased herself often enough. She had learned the ways of satisfying that urge in the darkness of her own bedchamber or while bathing—or both. She had thrown her head back and moaned in abandon as her thoughts spiraled. But it was not the same.
She longed for a man to thrust himself inside her, widening her, stretching her, filling her, just as she knew all the married women experienced. It was only a shame that one had to marry to experience it.
“I admit,” Chelsea said, bringing Charlotte back to the moment, “I almost allowed him to find it.” She fell back in giggles once more.
“Why didn’t you?” Charlotte asked, leaning forward, eager to hear every word. “You are to be married soon.”
Chelsea raised her eyebrows. “But we are not yet married. I do havesomehonor, Charlotte.”
I would not have a single drop of honor in your position.
