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‘That is not a problem when one is distracted,’ Blake said. ‘And I think I can honestly say I was very thoroughly distracted by your story.’
This time his smile was unforced, intimate.
‘I…could we try again, Blake?’ He looked as though he might protest but Ellie hurried on. ‘If you want to, I mean. I know you probably don’t any more. But I think that now it will be all right.’
‘Are you just being brave about this, Eleanor?’
Blake sounded severe, but a rapid downward glance reassured her that his body was more than willing, even if he had doubts.
‘No. I think so long as I can move… It was when all your weight came down on me and I could not see your face that I panicked.’
‘You are calling me fat?’
It was all right. If he could tease her, then it was going to be all right. ‘Certainly not,’ Ellie said demurely and, heart thudding, slipped off the robe and held out her arms to him.
Blake was gentle, but not hesitant, and she found some corner of her distracted mind was thankful for his experience and his self-confidence. If he had been tentative, had acted as though she had something to fear, then she was sure the panic would have come flooding back. But when he did come down over her he kept the whole weight of his upper body off hers, left her arms free to do as she wanted. And she found that what she wanted was to hold him, tug him down so she could wrap her arms around his shoulders and bury her face in the angle of his neck as he began to ease into her.
Ellie began to rock with him, found she could open to him. It felt as though it ought to hurt, because there was a lot of him to fit, but somehow, although it felt strange, it didn’t. Blake surged, thrust, and there was a pinch, a yielding. He gasped out something she did not catch, and she was gasping too, holding his broad shoulders, lifting to meet his urgency.
She wanted something—something more, something just out of reach—and then she found it, and lost herself in the intensity of the sensation.
Blake went rigid, then thrust again.
‘Ellie…’
And then there were lights behind her eyelids, and fire in her veins, and magic—it had to be magic—because just for an endless second they were one person, and a moment ago they had been two.
*
Eleanor slept with the utter abandon
of the very young or the totally exhausted. Blake sat up against the pillows and watched her as she lay curled against his side, one hand under her cheek, one arm flung across his stomach, her fingertips tantalisingly close to his very obvious arousal.
He found that much as he wanted her again he wanted her to rest more. He inched his hand down and lifted hers up to his chest, into a less provocative and provoking position.
Those curls nestling around her head sharpened her features a little—made her look almost elfin, like some faery overlooked and left sleeping after a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. She had washed off all that confounded rice powder and her freckles were once again on display for him to count—a labour as endless as counting the stars in the Milky Way. She had a few dusting across her breasts as well…
Yesterday had been shattering. First the wedding, then the reception, then Eleanor’s appalling story, and finally the unexpectedly good experience of making love to his new wife. His expectations had been low, his level of anxiety about hurting or frightening a virgin high. He should have guessed from what he had already known of her that she would be not so much apprehensive as terrified.
Last night had been a revelation as much of his own lack of perception as of Eleanor’s past. He suspected that married life was going to be one long series of revelations—not all of them enjoyable.
Against his side his wife stirred, wriggling closer, then stilled again, a slight smile on her lips.
‘Dreaming of me?’ he murmured, but she was sound asleep.
She had been so brave, and so responsive, and so passionate in the end. He’d had to go on instinct with her, desperate not to hurt her, and it seemed he had succeeded.
Lord, but he had been angry with her last night over those confounded shoes. And furious with himself for letting her think it mattered so much that she turned herself into a pattern-book countess. And under it all she had been steeling herself to endure what she had feared so much.
He had proposed to this woman on an impulse. She’d needed help, he’d been aware he really ought to marry, and Eleanor was intelligent and good company. He had thought they could have an amiably companionable marriage that would not involve deep feeling or the risk of hurt on either side.
Now he wondered if he had made a serious mistake. He had a wife now—one who expected more from him than a title and status. Eleanor had been in trouble, but she had been fiercely independent and her life had been her own. Now, as a married woman, a member of the ton, she had no independence, no free will.
It was in his power to make her very unhappy indeed if she became emotionally attached to him, because he had no emotional attachment to give her in return. So she must not be allowed to get attached—or to see the void, the lack in him which could only hurt her.
His stomach rumbled, which made her stir a little, jerking him out of his brooding. Blake grimaced, and glanced across at the clock. Seven—which went with the amount of light in the room. He hated having the curtains drawn right across, even in the depths of the winter. They’d had no supper last night, all thought of food having vanished in the heat of that row.
He would order a large breakfast and make certain she ate it all. Eggs and cream and hot chocolate—that was what she needed to build her up, he thought, looking at the way her ribs showed even with the weight she had put on recently.
