Page 54 of Sinfully Daring

His voice shivered over her, but she still could not meet his eyes. She nodded. His fingers touched her chin, turning her face back towards him.

“I must speak plain, Rosamund, so I beg you will forgive me, but I will not marry a woman who does not want me. This time, I will have a real marriage in every sense. I want to share my life with you, to have children with you, and I will not bed a woman who regards my touch as a chore, as something to be endured.”

Rosamund gasped, wanting to avoid his gaze but he would not let her evade him.

“Does my touch, my kiss, displease you?”

She shook her head, wishing she were braver, but this was happening so suddenly, and though she had instigated the whole thing herself, it was overwhelming. If only there were more time.

“Are you certain, Rosamund? Because there is far more than just kisses ahead of us, and if you cannot endure even that….”

Squirming with embarrassment, Rosamund could see only one way out of her predicament if she could not tell him what it was she was feeling. She grasped his lapels and kissed him.

He stilled at once, his breath catching, though he made no move to reach for her. Rosamund pulled back warily, finding him watching her with interest but he held still, not saying a word. Encouraged, Rosamund leaned in again and pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth. His warm breath fluttered against hers, but he only watched her. Feeling a little bolder, Rosamund closed her eyes and pressed her mouth full against his, jolting with shock as she felt his tongue touch her lower lip.

Pulling back to stare at him, she saw a glint of something devilish in his eyes that made her insides quiver. Determined not to be thought missish, she kissed him again, and this time, when his tongue touched her lips, she did not pull away. He traced the seam of her lips, seeking entry. She opened to him, quickly beguiled by the sensation of his tongue sliding against hers.

“Oh,” she murmured, breaking the kiss to take a deep breath.

“Is that a good, ‘oh’?” he asked.

Rosamund forced herself to nod.

“Tell me, then. Tell me you like my kisses,” he said, not taking his eyes from her.

“My lord,” she protested, torn between laughter and feeling very foolish.

“Sebastian,” he corrected, his voice firm. “And I am not joking, Rosamund. I will not spend the rest of my days wondering what you are thinking, wondering if you are doing your duty or if you desire me. You must talk to me, you must tell me what you think, what you feel.”

“But it’s so….” She fidgeted, wishing this wasn’t so awkward.

“Difficult, yes, I know,” he said, his voice gentle now. “But I am on your side, Rosamund. I only want to make you happy, and how am I to do that if you are not honest with me? Do you even know what happens in the marriage bed?”

Rosamund fought the urge to run. “Yes,” she said, remembering the matter-of-fact way her mother had described the physical act, and that there was pleasure to be found in it with the right partner.

He lowered his voice, and once again it seemed to shiver over her skin like a caress. How strange, to find the tone of his voice as arousing as his words. “And can you imagine the two of us doing that, touching so intimately?”

Rosamund leapt to her feet, feeling as though she might combust as the images flickered behind her eyes of his powerful, naked form wrapped around hers. Having never allowed herself to think of him that way, the force of her attraction to him was shocking. She wanted to press herself against him and to pull him down on top of her, to feel the weight of him crushing her, overpowering her, and the realisation that she felt such visceral things for him was startling and frightening and wonderful, and she could not help but wonder what he would think if he knew of the lewd images in her head. Though Mama vehemently disagreed, society believed women ought not to have such thoughts, or even enjoy the marital bed. But Mama was an exceptional woman and powerful enough to be scandalous. Most men would think badly of an unwed woman having such wicked thoughts. Only whores took pleasure in it. Would Hargreaves think that, especially after the way his wife had taunted him?

“Oh, God. This was a bad idea,” he said, the misery in his voice so audible it shook her.

“What? N-No, it isn’t,” she said, turning back to him.

He shook his head. “If you cannot even bear the idea of it, then—”

“That’s not why!” she cried, wringing her hands, frustrated that he was so very wrong, and she was too shy to explain herself. “It’s j-just all too fast. It’s happening so quickly. You were my friend and… and now….”

She watched as he got to his feet and came to her, taking her hands in his. “Forgive me. I am an unfeeling brute for treating you with such impatience, only I am afraid too, Rosamund. I don’t want to marry you and for either of us to regret it. Perhaps we should wait like your father suggested. In two or three months, when you’ve had time to get used to the idea—”

“No!” she shook her head. “People will expect us to wait until the scandal dies down a little before we marry. It will only make us look guilty. If we do it at once, they are more likely to believe our side of the story or else they must convict us of being utterly cold and ruthless. I do not think people could believe that of either of us.”

“Do you really believe that?” he asked, obviously sceptical.

“I do,” she said, before forcing herself to explain. “And I can, yes.”

“Can what?”

She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping it might be easier to tell him if she could not see him. “I can imagine it. Us. I can.”