Chapter 14
I miss the days when you were in London and we could write back and forth like a conversation. I suppose we are now at the mercy of the tides. Our letters must cross each other on the ocean. Mrs. Pentwhistle said she thought it was a charming thought, that they had little hands and were waving at each other across the water. I think Mrs. Pentwhistle drank too much of Reverend Pentwhistle’s Communion wine.
Please tell Captain Rokesby that the little purple flower he pressed arrived in perfect condition. Isn’t it remarkable that such a little sprig is strong enough to journey from Massachusetts to Derbyshire? I am sure I will never have the opportunity to thank him in person for it. Please do assure him that I will treasure it always. It is so very special to have a small piece of your world.
—from Cecilia Harcourt to her brother Thomas
The little death.
Surely the French had been onto something when they came up with that phrase. Because the tightness that was coiling in Cecilia’s body . . . the pulsing, inexorable need for something she did not even understand . . . It all felt like it was leading toward something she could not possibly survive.
“Edward,” she gasped. “I can’t . . .”
“You can,” he assured her, but it was not his words that sank into her, it was his voice, pressed up against her skin as his wicked lips made lazy discovery of her breasts.
He had touched her—kissed her—in places she herself had not dared to explore. She was bewitched. No, she was awakened. She’d lived twenty-two years in this body and was only just now learning its purpose.
“Relax,” Edward whispered.
Was he mad? There was nothing relaxing about this, nothing that made her want to relax. She wanted to grab and claw and yes, scream as she fought her way to the edge.
Except she did not know what that edge was, or what might be on the other side.
“Please,” she begged, and it didn’t even seem to matter that she had no idea what she was begging for. Because he did. Dear God, she hoped he did. If he didn’t, she was going to kill him.
With his mouth and his fingers, he brought her to the peak of desire. And then, when her hips rose up, silently begging him for more, he dipped one finger inside of her and flicked his tongue across her breast.
She came apart.
She cried his name as her hips lifted from the bed. Every muscle clenched in unison. It was like a symphony made of only one taut note. Then, after her body had grown tight as a board, she finally drew breath and collapsed onto the mattress.
Edward withdrew his finger and lay on his side next to her, propped up on his elbow. When she found the energy to open her eyes, she saw that he was smiling like a cat in cream.
“What was that?” she said, her words more breath than voice.
He brushed a damp tendril of hair from her forehead, then leaned forward to kiss her brow. “La petite mort,” he murmured.
“Oh.” There was a world of wonder in that single syllable. “That’s what I thought.”
This seemed to amuse him, but in that lovely way that made Cecilia flush with pleasure. She was making him smile. She was making him happy. Surely when she reached her final reckoning that would count for something.
But they had not yet consummated the marriage.
She closed her eyes. She had to stop thinking that way. There was no marriage. This was not a consummation, it was—
“What’s wrong?”
She looked up. Edward was staring down at her, his eyes so bright and blue, even in the fading light of evening.
“Cecilia?” He did not sound concerned, exactly, but he knew something had changed.
“I’m just . . .” She fought for something to say, something she could say that would actually be true. And so she said, “. . . overwhelmed.”
He smiled, just a little, but it was enough to change the shape of her heart forever. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
She nodded as best as she could. It was a good thing, at least right now. As for next week, or next month, when her life would surely fall apart . . .
She would deal with that when she had to.
His knuckles brushed her cheek in a tender caress, and still, he stared down at her like he could read her soul. “What are you thinking, I wonder.”
What was she thinking? That she wanted him. That she loved him. That even though she knew this was wrong, it felt like they were married, and she just wanted it to be real, if only for this one night.
“Kiss me,” she said, because she needed to take control of the moment. She needed to be in this moment, not floating off into the future, into a world where Edward’s smile was no longer hers.
“A little bossy all of a sudden,” he teased.
But she was having none of it. “Kiss me,” she said again, wrapping one of her hands behind his head. “Now.”
She pulled him down, and when their lips met, her hunger exploded. She kissed him like he was her very air, her food and water. She kissed him with everything she felt inside, everything she could never tell him. It was a declaration and an apology; it was a woman clutching at bliss while she had the chance.
And he returned it all with equal passion.
She would never know what came over her, how her hands seemed to know what to do, pulling him close, reaching for the fastening of the breeches he still had not taken off.
She let out a cry of frustration when he pulled away from her, hopping from the bed to tear off the offending garment. But she did not take her eyes off him, and God above, he was beautiful. Beautiful and very, very large, enough to make her eyes widen with apprehension.
He must have seen her expression because he chuckled, and when he got back on the bed, his expression was somewhere between roguish and feral. “It’ll fit,” he said, his voice husky against her ear.
His hand slid down her body to the cleft between her legs, and it was only then that she realized how very hot and wet she’d gotten. Hot and wet and needy. Had he pleasured her on purpose? To make her ready for him?
If so, it had worked, because she felt an overwhelming hunger for him, a need to take him within her, to join her body to his and never let go.
She felt him press up against her, just the very tip of him, and her breath caught.
“I’ll be gentle,” he promised.
“I’m not sure I want you to be.”
A shudder ran through his body, and when she looked up, his jaw was tightly clenched as he fought for control. “Don’t say things like that,” he managed to get out.
She arched against him, trying to somehow get even closer. “But it’s true.”
He moved forward, and she felt herself opening to him.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked.
“No,” she said, “but it feels very . . . strange.”
“Strange good or strange bad?”
She blinked a few times, trying to make sense of what she was feeling. “Just strange.”
“I’m not so sure I like that answer,” he murmured. His hands reached behind her, pulling her open wider, and she gasped as another inch of his manhood pressed forward. “I don’t want this to be strange.” His lips found her ear. “I think we’re going to need to do this very often.”
He sounded different, almost untamed, and something very feminine inside of her began to sparkle. She had made him this way. This man—this big, powerful man—was losing control, and it was all for a need of her.
She had never felt so strong.
The sensations weren’t like the ones from before, though. When he had been using just his hands and his lips, he had whipped her into a storm of desire and then sent her soaring with pleasure. But now it was more that she had to get used to him, accommodate his size. It didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t as lovely as before. At least not for her.
But for Edward . . . Everything she had been feeling before, every last clench of need she saw on his face. He was loving this. And that was enough for her.
But not, apparently, for him, because he frowned and stopped moving.
She looked up at him with questioning eyes.
“This will not do,” he said, dropping a kiss on her nose.
“Am I not pleasing you?” She’d thought she was, but maybe not.