“Oh, pish! You’re funning me, sir, and I don’t appreciate it.”
“Not at all,” he said quietly, moving closer. “I’m a man of great pride, Jane, and I’d not want to disappoint.”
He was serious! It hadn’t once entered her mind that such could be the case, but he was actually anxious about bedding her. Was it merely a reaction to her fear? The thought brought another urge to weep. Her hateful jitters were going to ruin it for him. He would not enjoy their coupling. He would leave her bed and find another. One who wasn’t a ninny.
Oh, God, how had she come to such a pass?
“Your face is a map to your soul, you know.” He reached out and fiddled with her hair, watching it curl about his fingers. His very long fingers, attached to his very great hand. “Mine, I believe, is not, so I’ll tell you exactly what I’m thinking.” Without meeting her gaze, his eyes fixed to the hair within his fingers, he continued softly, “I’ve taken three wives, and each was a lady of strict decorum and staunchly conservative morals. Carnal thoughts didn’t enter their minds, most likely because they were raised to believe such is not ladylike. Otherwise, my experiences have been with women like Miriam, for whom fulfillment is generally an unexpected benefit. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes.”
He raised the other hand and combed his long fingers through her hair, brushing against her breasts as he did so. “You, Jane, are unlike any other woman I’ve lain with. You are my wife, a gently bred lady, but one of a passionate nature. On the other hand, you’re inexperienced.” Finally, he met her gaze. “What happened in Scotland doesn’t qualify as experience. I find myself perhaps as nervous as you, because I want to erase the memory from your mind, and the only way to do that is to make lying with me infinitely better.”
“Be assured, it would not take much to be better.”
His smile was gentle. “Was it so bad then, Jane?”
The damned tears came, in spite of a valiant effort on her part. Multiple swallows couldn’t hold back the knot in her throat. Rapid blinking did nothing but encourage the escape of the dreadful things. They coursed down her cheeks, mocking her by dripping onto her breasts. “I’m so sorry, Blixford. This is a disaster of epic proportions, is it not?”
She expected him to embrace her and assure her that it was not, to lie and make her feel better, despite what was surely great disappointment. He’d married a woman who was not so far from his first three wives after all.
Instead, he turned toward the bed, flung back the tester and underlying sheet, then returned to her. He lifted her shift over her head, threw it aside, and swung her up into his arms before he carried her to the bed and laid her in the center, where she was enveloped by the mattresses. Wide eyed, her tears aborted by surprise, she watched him remove his boots and stockings, then stand and release the fall of his breeches before he hastily unbuttoned them. He shoved them off, along with his drawers and bent a knee to the bed, sliding next to her, pulling the covers over them before she got a very close look at his member. But she’d seen enough. He was, indeed, proportionate. Dear God. He would kill her, surely.
Then he was pulling her next to him, one arm beneath her, and the other against her waist, kissing her forcefully, plunging his tongue into her mouth, demanding a response. All the while, his free hand wandered. Across her belly to her breasts, kneading each in turn and then running along her ribcage to her waist, and down to the curls between her legs before returning to her breasts. He tasted of the wine he had sampled before Mr. Osgood poured. He smelled very male, of soap, sweat, horse, and musk, mingled with his cologne. He felt hot and hard and powerful, muscles moving beneath his skin as his hand traveled up and down her body.
Jane couldn’t be certain when she’d begun to kiss him back, but at some point, she did. Of their own volition, her arms reached for him, one curling about his neck, the other circling his middle. He was solid and thick, much larger even than she’d thought. He moved his lips away from hers and kissed her brows, her cheeks and chin before he made his way to her throat, then lower, to her breast. He ran his tongue around her nipple, his big hand kneading the breast beneath, sending sharp pangs of desire though her center.
He raised up and moved closer still, resting his weight along his forearm, his chest lying against hers as he kissed her again. He found her curls, his fingers dipping lower, parting her, deftly stroking. She willed herself not to clamp her legs together, concentrated fiercely upon it.
He slowed and returned his hand to her waist. Lifting his head, his face mere inches from hers, he said in his deep voice, “I thought it best never to speak of it again, but perhaps I was wrong. Will you tell me the truth of how it was?”