Unforgivable(53)

She was in her nightgown. He was used to sophisticated women who wore pretty confections of lace and silk to bed, not nightgowns like this—of high-necked white linen. The sort of thing nuns probably wore, he thought sourly.

Or virgins on their wedding nights.

At that thought, he was struck with a startling visual memory of their wedding night, of standing over her in her dim bedchamber, looking at her as she slept in just such a nightgown. Disturbed, he banished that image from his mind determinedly and set to work removing the rest of his clothes.

With mistresses, undressing for bed had tended to be an enjoyably mutual effort. This silent, solitary approach felt horribly formal, as though they were about to embark on some archaic ritual. Christ, is this marriage? He had no stomach for it.

He pulled off his cravat and shirt and placed them on a nearby chair. When he turned around again, he discovered Rose was standing, facing him—was staring at him, in fact, her hairbrush forgotten in her hand. He was clad only in his drawers now, and as he watched, her gaze travelled over his body, lingering at his crotch before jerking self-consciously back to his face. He felt his cock stir at the unexpected perusal.

Well then. Perhaps I do have the stomach for marriage?

Gil kept his eyes on Rose as he slowly untied his drawers and pushed them down, kicking them away to stand before her quite naked. She was looking at him with what looked like hungry fascination, and he discovered that he liked to have her eyes upon him like that. He stood with his arms relaxed at his sides, wondering how she would react if he did nothing at all. Would she approach him of her own volition?

They faced one another without moving for perhaps a minute. Then, just as Gil was thinking of walking toward her, Rose closed the distance between them. She came to a halt just out of arms’ reach and raised her hands to the buttons of her nightgown. Her nimble fingers unfastened, unfastened, unfastened, ten, fifteen, twenty little buttons until the gown gaped open almost to her waist, allowing him a shadowy view of her body. She shrugged her shoulders out of the gown, and it felt to her waist.

Gil stared at her, lustful and fascinated. His cock bobbed in front of him, undeniable evidence of her appeal, as his eyes devoured the picture she presented. Her nipples were larger and darker than before, her breasts fuller. She pushed the gown down over her hips, and it fell to the floor. He saw then that her previously trim waist was slightly thickened, and there was a slight roundness to her belly there hadn’t been before. There was not much sign of a baby yet, but she was different. Fruitful, fertile.

She took one more step forward and lifted her face to look at him. Her expression was grave. “Well. Here I am,” she said.

It was an offer that he did not want to take, grudging and dutiful.

After this afternoon in the library, he’d wondered if he’d imagined the taste of desire in her kiss, but now he saw a hint of it again—in her eyes this time—and he wanted more.

He sat on the bed, leaning back on his elbows, and looked up at her. “And here am I,” he countered.

She frowned very slightly, but eventually she moved forward again, till her knees hit the side of the bed and she stood over him. Slowly, Gil levered himself forward. When he was sitting straight, her delectable breasts were right in front of him. But though his mouth fairly watered to taste her and his hands itched to touch her, he made no further move. Instead, he let his hands rest on his thighs and waited. If she was waiting for a cue from him, she would get none.

Her grey eyes were puzzled and stormy. They searched his face but apparently found no answers there.

After a long time, she lifted her hands and placed them on his shoulders lightly. Her palms shaped themselves to the roundness of his muscles, her fingers fluttering uncertainly. Just as he thought she was about to withdraw, she let her palms graze their way up his throat until her hands cradled his jaw on both sides. She drew him to her and moved toward him too, closing the little distance between their mouths until she’d stoppered it with a kiss.

God, but her lips were the softest he’d ever known, her scent the sweetest. She was all around him, her small hands clasping his face and now drifting into his hair, her fascinating, newly rounded body pressed to his, her hair loose, the scent of it in his nostrils now. And he was lost.

For a moment, less than a moment, he thought Eve. And then, no. But Eve—Rose—it didn’t matter right now. It was her, and he was drunk on her, drowning in her. She murmured his own name, his full name, against his lips. Gilbert, the “b” a puckering little kiss of its own, and then her mouth was drifting down, her hands pushing his head back to give her access to his throat.