A Marriage Of Rogues. Margaret Moore
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kissing him passionately, she slipped her hands beneath his jacket to feel the muscles of his powerful chest. She remembered the sight of his naked back. The taut flesh. The narrow valley of his spine.
Her need growing, she pulled away. Keeping her gaze on his flushed face and questioning eyes, she reached back to untie the laces of her gown, then wiggled out of her dress that was as ugly as her pelisse until it puddled around her ankles and she stood before him clad only in her chemise and petticoat, stockings and boots. As he continued to watch, she pulled the pins from her hair until it fell loose about her shoulders.
Still he hadn’t moved, so after she set the pins on the washstand, she blew out the candle there and returned to him. Without speaking, she began to remove his clothes, starting with his jacket. He made no effort to help or hinder her while she continued with his shirt, undoing the buttons as far as they went. That wasn’t so easy, because her fingers were trembling, but in the end, she succeeded and pulled it over his head.
Regarding her steadily, he reached for the buttons of his trousers.
She was not, she discovered, quite as prepared for what was to come as she thought.
She hurried to the bed, tugged off her boots and stockings and got beneath the thick coverings before blowing out the candle on the bedside table and plunging the room into darkness.
“Do you still want me to stay?” he asked, his voice low and deep and seductive.
“Yes,” she replied, although she pulled the covers up to her chin.
The bed creaked and the feather bed dipped as he got in beside her.
She waited, breathless and excited, until his lips found hers for a tender, seeking kiss, exactly what a bridegroom’s kiss should be.
She put her arms about him, letting him deepen the kiss and slide his tongue between her lips. His hand grazed her breasts, his thumb flicking ever so gently over the nipple that had grown stiff. The warmth flooding her body increased.
She put her hands on his shoulders and slid them down his arms, feeling the strength of him as she moved to caress his back, moving lower until she felt the rise of his buttocks.
That was as far as she dared while he untied the drawstring of her chemise and slipped his hand inside to stroke her naked breasts.
She moaned and arched and he inched closer, cradling her against him, before he broke the kiss and put his lips over her nipple, licking it gently with his tongue. It was like nothing she had ever known. Thrilling. Exciting. Arousing.
She closed her eyes and arched again, panting, while he continued to pleasure her with his lips and tongue. His hand moved beneath her petticoat and crept up her thigh to touch her intimately.
“What are you doing?” she gasped.
“Trying to ensure that you’re ready for me,” he answered in that deep, soft voice.
“By touching me there?”
“Yes,” he whispered. He shifted lower and kissed her shin, then moved his lips steadily upward.
“Oh!” she gasped when he reached the inside of her thigh.
Surprise quickly melted into desire. Her knuckles whitened as she held tight to the sheet and let his tongue go where it would, do what it would. She felt no more shock or shame, only a delicious building tension.
Rising, he put his hands on either side of her and hoisted his body between her legs. His mouth returned to hers, taking it not so tenderly this time, but with a fiery, heated passion that kindled a similar blazing desire in her. She ran her hands over his shoulders, his back, his ribs, his chest, thrilling to the feel of his hot flesh and taut muscles, the welcome weight of him as he shifted his hips.
Again he pleasured her breasts, and now she arched to meet his licking, teasing tongue. Panting, she groaned as he stroked her below. And then his finger slid inside.
Her eyes flew open and he raised his head, his breathing swift and ragged. “I think you’re ready. Are you sure you want this?”
She was ready for anything her husband might do. “Yes!”
He reached down and placed himself where his finger had been. Then, slowly, he eased himself inside.
It didn’t hurt.
She smiled with joy and relief until he leaned down to take her mouth with his. Instinctively she wrapped her legs around him and encircled his neck with her arms. Breathing became gasps and small groans. She closed her eyes, the delicious tension building more and more, as well as a growing sense that something was about to happen, like the uneasy calm before a storm.
He moved faster. She, too, began to move, rising to meet his thrusts. Gripping him harder, tighter. No longer kissing, their gasping breaths joined until, in a shattering moment, the tension broke, sending wave after throbbing wave through her body. At the same time, he groaned like a man about to expire, his body bucking.
He stopped and, panting, lay with his head in the crook of her neck while she slowly, slowly returned to a place where she could think. And speak. “Is that...all?” she asked in a breathless whisper.
He pulled away and moved to lie beside her. “It’s enough for tonight. And now that we’re so intimately acquainted, you should call me Dev.”
“And you should call me Thea.”
“Good night, Thea,” he replied, rolling onto his side, away from her.
“Good night, Dev,” she said, also turning onto her side.
But she couldn’t sleep. After a while, she got up and washed, then crept back to bed, trying not to disturb him as she lay wide-awake. He needed his rest, for he must surely be exhausted.
* * *
But Dev was not asleep then, or for a long time afterward. He was trying to decide what, if anything, he should do.
Although he’d agreed to marry Thea Markham out of guilt, remorse and his distaste for the marriage mart, she also intrigued him. Her passionate responses had thrilled him, too, perhaps because she was so serene and practical and resolute at other times. But when it appeared she may have feigned her desire, he’d begun to question all the reasons for his decision and been prepared to seek an annulment—until she’d looked at him with apparently sincere longing. Then, and despite whatever reservations he still harbored, he’d been unable to resist his lustful urges, just as his father always said.
What should he do now? Stay married and trust that her desire was as genuine as it seemed and that their marriage could succeed despite its unusual origin, or give up the hope that any union based on such a foundation could be happy and seek an annulment?
In the end, he decided only one thing: until he was sure of his course of action, he should not touch his wife again.
No matter how much he wanted to.
Seated in the barouche the next morning, Thea kept her gaze on the passing countryside while they continued their journey back to Dundrake. The rugged beauty of the lakes and mountains, and the play of the light and shadow caused by the sun disappearing behind clouds, were a wonderful change from the squalid areas of London where she’d been living. Sometimes she would catch a glimpse of a waterfall or wild river, the water rushing over rocks. Occasionally they would pass a farmstead, the yard alive with chickens and geese, and sometimes a dog or a child quietly watching the fancy coach pass. Or they passed through a small village dominated by a little stone church, a smithy and a few shops around a green where some farmers and their wives were buying and selling.
Yet Thea couldn’t completely enjoy the scenery. She was too distracted by the grimly silent presence of the man sitting opposite her.
After finally falling asleep last night, she had awakened