And she . . . that wave brought her back to where she'd been years ago: in love. In love with Evander Septimus Brody.
So mad with love that she had written him a poem, had dreamt of him entering her moonlit room.
He was rising over her, pushing her legs further apart, whispering something . . . an apology? Pushing into her.
It was a possession her body welcomed, even though it was uncomfortable. Perhaps more than uncomfortable. Abruptly her mind slammed back into clarity and she stopped him with both hands to his chest. "No!"
Alarm had replaced every other emotion. Something was wrong. He was too large, like a cork that didn't fit a bottle.
His words were strangled. "Duchess, you can't stop me now."
"It doesn't fit," she said, choosing her words carefully. "We are not compatible. You'll have to-" She shoved at his shoulders. "Take yourself off. It's not working."
He took a breath, didn't move.
Mia felt a primitive surge of fear: "Get off me," she cried. "Didn't you hear me? It doesn't fit."
To her utter fury, a flash of amusement went through his eyes. "Are you certain?" he asked silkily. "Because it feels damned perfect to me."
"Don't swear!" she cried, beside herself. Then she realized what he was doing, rocking slightly as he spoke, slipping in further. And further. "Stop that," she said, between clenched teeth.
He was braced on his arms, over her. She smelled something heady: a man's sweat, combined with an elusive touch of leather and fresh air. Vander's eyes were intense blue slits, and she grasped that he was exerting tremendous self-control not to push forward.
Mia cleared her throat. "Let's try again at a later date," she suggested. Such as never, her mind supplied.
He nudged forward again. "Is it painful?" he asked, his eyes intent on hers.
It felt intrusive. Too much. Too wide. Too fast. "It isn't painful, exactly, but it's just not right. We're not compatible. You're too large and too close."
"May I move a bit more?" he whispered back. "You're driving me mad, Mia. I've never felt anything like it." He nudged forward again and as she watched, his pupils dilated and his head dipped so that strands of hair brushed her face.
Just like that all the heat bubbled up in her again. And just like that, he no longer seemed intrusive and too large, but like a part of her body that had been missing until now. He was both foreign and intrinsic to her.
Tentatively, she tilted her hips, and though he hadn't moved, the thick length of him came into her a bit more. Breath came harshly between his lips. "You," he whispered. "It's up to you, Mia."
A dark undertow of desire pulled her down, teasing her, taunting. She braced her knees, and slowly, slowly pressed upward. Her body shook, but it had nothing to do with pain.
Her body and his . . .
They were two halves of the same whole.
Vander made that inarticulate noise again, and she caught sight of his face: beautiful, voracious, raw. It fired her blood, dragged her under. With a wild cry, she pushed up, pulling him down at the same moment, seating him fully in the softness of her body.
His response was carnal, as his body surged into motion. Mia gasped, trying to learn the rhythm of the dance, an urgent, hard, pounding dance. She barely mastered it and she was shooting down that same river again, clinging to him, arms around his neck, legs curving around his hips, head back, being pulled faster and faster . . .
She finally let go with a scream, surrendering to the deep pleasure that washed over her, her fingernails digging into the thick muscles of his shoulders.
Dimly, she heard a harsh noise come from his lips and he pumped again, once, twice more, pressed into her so far that there was no place where he stopped and she started.
Chapter Twenty-one
From Miss Lucibella Delicosa to Mrs. Petunia Stubbs
September 11, 1800
Dear Mrs. Stubbs,
I write in response to your letter of June 17, informing me that you plan to name your unborn daughter-if she is a daughter-after one of my heroines. I am truly honored to think that you have read Esmeralda, or Memoirs of an Heiress over twenty times. And I am deeply moved to know that my books helped you overcome the tragedy of your mother's death.
I generally hesitate to offer advice, but since you express the fervent wish that your future daughter resemble my heroine in every particular, I do want to point out that Esmeralda's appearance might lead one to think that the hero loves her for that reason. It is not so: he loves Esmeralda for her loving spirit, kind heart, and courageous disposition.
It is my hope that your daughter will have those attributes of Esmeralda, as they will give her a much happier life than if she resembles my heroine's appearance.
I wish you and Esmeralda all the best in life,
Miss Lucibella Delicosa
Mia woke suddenly, the way she used to jerk awake when Charlie was a baby and she heard a wail from the nursery.
Vander lay on his back, his face turned away from her, the sheet barely covering his hips. Dawn was creeping into the room, just enough that it clung to the contours of his body, as if the glow originated within him. Bands of muscle marched across his belly in perfect order.
If she dared, she would have traced each band with her fingers, investigating how they knit to his back and shoulders, linking to burly arms stained brown by the sun.
His body was the opposite of hers. There wasn't a bit of fat on him; his body was like stored motion, shaped to conquer men and pleasure women. Her fingers itched to caress him, feel all that untamed strength under her hands . . . lying still at her command. She imagined him quivering as she drove him to make the unguarded, rough sound that had come from his throat the night before.
She snatched her hand back just in time. She had already made a fool of herself. It would be different if they were better matched.
The dissimilarities between them couldn't be more obvious. It was unnecessary to glance down: Her knees were plump and her thighs were plumper. There must be muscle somewhere in her legs, because she managed to stand and sit and walk, but they certainly weren't visible to the naked eye.
Thank goodness, he hadn't argued with her about her chemise, though it didn't hide very much in the growing light of morning. She could see her nipples and the curve of her belly through the cloth.
Lower, where her chemise was still hitched up around her hips, she saw rusty stains on her leg. And on the sheets, she saw with some dismay. Susan-and the rest of the household-would have no doubts about what had happened the night before.
She wiggled backward cautiously, reaching her toe down to touch the floor, eyes on Vander. He breathed slowly, his arms flung out, as if he hadn't a care in the world. He slept like a man who owned the world, a duke whom everyone desired. It was another dissimilarity between them: she always slept in a ball, tightly coiled.
Once in the bathing room, and with the door to Vander's bedchamber firmly latched, she stared at herself in all those mirrors. Last night he had spread her out like a feast and done things to her with his mouth and hands . . . things that made her whimper and cry and generally act like a fool.
The four nights rule was a good one. She knew instinctively that it would hurt to do this more than once every few months. Oh, not hurt in a physical sense, but in her heart.
Making love could too easily become a habit, like some sort of honey dream leading her to believe that her husband adored her, the way Frederic adored Flora in the novel she was writing.
Except Vander was nothing whatsoever like Frederic. She was probably lucky that he remembered her name in the midst of passion. In fact, now she thought of it, Vander might not remember her name, since he always called her "Duchess."
Whereas for her . . . she stared blankly at herself, acknowledging the truth of it. She was fifty times more in love with him now than she had been as a young girl. Even thinking about him made her heart flutter in her chest.
If she didn't protect that heart, it would crack into a hundred pieces when he lost interest. Last night was like playing a game, the best game ever invented. She had to keep in mind that it was only a game, and one at which Vander excelled.
At least the four nights were at her discretion. As her husband, he could have demanded marital intimacies whenever he wanted, even if he came straight from another woman's bed. The thought made her feel ill.
For a moment, a gaping emptiness opened up before her, the conviction that she wouldn't survive this marriage. Men craved variety; she knew that even with her limited understanding of society and its relations. How could she join him in bed, once she knew that he had turned to another woman?