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“Do not cry out when it hurts. If the Marquess truly is a good man, it will only take him longer to finish the task if he has to worry. The first times are so painful you’ll wish him to finish as soon as possible. As he visits your chamber, over time, the ordeal shall become so unremarkable and simply boring that you’ll still count the seconds and wish him to be done.”
Oh my.“How often must I allow all this?”
“Once per week until you are breeding.”
“How long willthattake?”
With a shrug, Harriet relaxed against the back of the settee once more. “It differs for everyone.” She raised an eyebrow. “Now, after you have birthed two sons, we shall drink more sherry, andthenI shall tell you all about taking a lover for yourself.That’sa different matter entirely!”
∞∞∞
Beatrice lay on her back in the middle of the bed, listening intently in the dark for any indication of her husband’s arrival. Her sable hair was plaited as usual for night, but she wore a new ivory nightgown. The hem reached her ankles, and the top of the bedsheet was draped across her collarbone, so her husband would never see it, but she was aware of the pretty pink rosebuds she herself had embroidered along the neckline.
Hearing only her own rapid, nervous breathing, she tried to calm herself by thinking back to the lovely celebration banquet many hours ago. Prior to their wedding, Beatrice had met the Marquess six times and danced one waltz with him on the night of their betrothal. After Harriet’s advice last night, she had half expected to see a grotesque, horned figure at the altar this morning, yet it had been handsome, dignified William waiting for her, his cat-green eyes holding her gaze as they repeated their vows.
Sitting next to each other at the banquet, Beatrice could scarcely keep her eyes off his careful but sure hands as they handled cutlery or lifted his goblet. His every movement spoke of quiet strength. During their courtship, they had shared a single afternoon constitutional, and in the sunlight his hair looked dark blond. In the dim church and by candlelight during supper, it appeared light brown. Always, however, he gazed upon her as if she were someone special.
Elderly relatives, her sister, and even her new mother-in-law, the Dowager Marchioness, had kissed her cheek to congratulate her in the reception line. At some point, she had turned to look at her groom. In his solemn gaze, she read his unspoken desire to place his lips upon her cheek, too—though of course such a thing could not be permitted, not in public, no. Perhaps one day, enough affection could grow between them and he would kiss her cheek in private.
When the Marquess had conducted her on a tour of her new home and she expressed delight over her lovely bedchamber, he had smiled happily. Then those beautiful eyes had shifted to her bed, back to her, and over to the doorway that connected their chambers.
A shiver ran through her remembering that moment, for despite her sister’s warnings, the current rippling between them had held the promise of something…delightful. Her nightgown was as soft as silk; shifting under the bedclothes, tingles of sensation shot from breast to breast. She fought the urge as long as she could, but her hands snaked through the bedsheets to touch herself lightly between her legs.
When a soft knock reverberated through the door, her hands shot down to her sides and she croaked, “Enter.”
He carried a gleaming silver candlestick, and proper or not, she couldn’t help but look at him wearing nothing but a nightshirt. Butter-yellow candlelight graced the hollow of his taut throat, never before seen without yards of cravat wound about it.
Bea knew she should look away from the unbearably intimate sight.
She didn’t.
“Good evening, my lord.”
He set the candle on the table next to the bed, the movement causing fabric to pull over his powerful shoulders. “Good evening, my lady. Might you call me William?”
“Yes, William,” she said, her voice breaking on his name. “You may call me Beatrice.”
He nodded but did not otherwise speak, and she forced herself to stare at the ceiling while he rounded the bed and stopped at its foot.
He forgot to extinguish the taper!Hoping her sister would never discover the oversight, she couldn’t find the words—or the will—to insist on complete darkness. Perhaps he didn’t have anyone to explain how this was supposed to go.
In anticipation of his visit, the maids had left her bedsheet untucked, and he lifted it before crawling onto the mattress. She startled when his warm hand touched her ankle, and she shifted both of her legs to the side, making room for him.
“I—I’m afraid I’ll need you to open your legs for me,” he said in a quiet, deep voice.
Embarrassment flooded her as she remembered her sister’s unbelievable description of what he was about to do. “Yes, of course.”
Though she managed to part her ankles, her knees remained stubbornly closed, as did her eyes. William raised the bedsheet and the hem of her nightgown, and gently spread her thighs. A tug of deep, primal longing pulled at her womb, and again when, after lifting the hem of his nightshirt, his bare legs brushed hers.
“I beg your pardon,” he said in a nearly-choked voice.
He lifted the sheet further, all the way up to her hips, and moved himself higher between her legs.
Beatrice knew it was utterly wrong, but when his breath caught, she opened her eyes.
Oh!
William’s eyes were burning—for her—and he appeared to be holding himself in one hand. She blinked rapidly as his other hand touched her nethers, opening her enough to nudge her with his rod. Hot and hard, it slid between her folds, and she fought a gasp. He stilled, his face fierce, but the sound he made could only be described as a sensual whimper.
