He was right. The tearing pain had lasted only an instant, and the uncomfortable sense of being overstretched was also ebbing. He didn't move, simply continued to soothe her with delicate nibbling kisses on her face and throat. His urgency had been transformed into patience, though the perspiration that sheened his torso testified that his restraint did not come easily.
Her body began to accept his alien presence as natural. As it did, the sensual craving that had vanished when they first joined started to build again. Very carefully she curled her hips upward. There was no pain, merely a new kind of compression that was… intriguing.
She moved again with more force. He gasped, and she felt the silky-steel length of him throbbing inside her. "You'd best be careful," he panted, "because I am very close to the breaking point."
"Break away, Lucien," she said huskily. "But you'll have to tell me what to do."
"Just… just move against me rhythmically."
He pressed deeper into her. She matched the movement, feeling the flex where they were joined. Sharp pleasure tingled through her in newly discovered places. "Like this?" she asked breathlessly.
"God, yes," he groaned. "Exactly like that."
He thrust forward again, and this time her body responded instinctively, already understanding what her mind had not yet mastered. The rhythms were as integral as her marrow. A queer aching. Shock friction and liquid heat. Wanting. Needing.
He made a suffocated sound and began driving into her, his muscular frame and implacable strength imprisoning her with a finality that was also liberation. This was not the considerate lover of the Clarendon, slowly bringing her to fulfillment, but a man demanding what was his right. He filled her arms and her senses, taste and touch and heat. She was no longer alone…
With sudden panic, she realized that he was penetrating her spirit as deeply as her body, stripping away her painfully constructed defenses. She tried to withdraw to the safety of being an observer, but it was impossible. She was utterly vulnerable, needing his warmth and strength with a desperation that shattered her will.
He slid his hand between them and touched her intimately, producing a violent pleasure that hurled her into the maelstrom. When she cried out, he buried his face in the angle between her head and shoulder. Air rushed into his lungs, and a savage shudder passed from him into her. She nearly danced out of her skin, out of control, ravaged as much by the searing force of his spirit as by the tumult of physical release.
The storm passed, leaving her shivering with shock. Dear God, if she had known, she would have dived out the window rather than let him touch her. She should have guessed that asking his help would irrevocably change the balance between them. Instead, she had willingly-eagerly-trusted him with her body, thinking that she would still be mistress of her soul and her secrets.
She had been mad to believe that she could withhold any part of herself once they became intimate. Fearfully, she recognized that anything he asked of her, she would give. And may God have mercy if he was unworthy of trust.
As she tried to choke back her tears, he rolled onto his side and gathered her against him. His hands skimmed over her, as gentle as they had previously been demanding. Quietly he said, "It's always been you, every time, hasn't it?"
She nodded, her face pressed against his collarbone.
"And you're Kathryn, not Kristine." It was a statement, not a question.
Reflexively trying to keep him at a distance, she asked "Why do you say that?"
"My head accepted that you must be two different women, but my instinct disagreed." Her discarded chemise had chanced to land on the bed, so he used it to carefully blot the small amount of blood between her legs. "You did an excellent job of playing the role of a worldly actress, but even at your most brazen, there was an underlying shyness. I wondered about it a little."
She made a face. "As you said earlier, there is a limit to what acting can do. I can mimic Kira very well, but I can't always make myself enjoy it."
"The final proof was your virginity. Kristine may be many things, but I doubt that virgin is one of them." He grimaced. "If I had listened to my intuition rather than logic, I wouldn't have hurt you as much."
"Virginity is nature's bad joke on womankind," she said gloomily.
He grinned, then stretched out beside her and propped his head on his hand. "I was told you were always tagging behind your sister. The implication was that you were a poor second to her, but that wasn't true, was it? Anything Kira did, you did equally well. When she played Sebastian, the male twin, in Twelfth Night, you were Viola, which is actually the larger, more vital role. When she went swimming nude in the river or galloping in breeches with the hunt, you were right beside her, equally brave and equally athletic. And given the nature of identical twins, I'll wager that you instigated your share of mischief."
She stared at him, shocked to her toes. "How do you know that? No one else has ever realized, even Aunt Jane. Everyone assumed that Kira was always the leader."
"Because identical twins are simultaneously alike and different, some people have trouble dealing with them," he said obliquely. "It's easier and more convenient to put them in pigeonholes. The bold twin, the shy twin. The good sister, the wicked sister." His eyes sparked with amusement. "My guess is that Kira is less wild than generally presumed, and that you are less respectable, despite the splendidly straitlaced performance you gave as Lady Kathryn."
"You're right that many people preferred to think of us as opposites rather than variations on a common theme," Kit agreed. "There are also what Kira and I used to call 'those people'-the ones who would only talk to one of us and would ignore the other as if she didn't exist. We used to joke about that."
"You probably also played games with your identicalness, and laughed between yourselves about the world's gullibility."
She smiled a little. "When someone said, 'Kristine's ribbon is red and Kathryn's is blue,' we'd switch ribbons and mannerisms as soon as the person turned away. But we are different in many ways. As I said at Jane's, Kira has the kind of charm and vitality that can light up a whole theater. She has always been outgoing and far more willing than I to try something new. I'm the prim and proper one."
He cocked his brows with exaggerated disbelief. "Prim? Proper? Is this the female who has been leading me a merry dance across the rooftops and bedrooms of London?"
"That has been necessity, not choice," she said bleakly.
His amusement vanished. "This is all about Kira, isn't it? Something has happened to her."
The fear that had eased a little during their teasing conversation flared again, clutching at her belly like an icy talon. "My sister is none of your business."
In a calm, implacable voice, he said, "Tell me."
She rolled away and sat up, wrapping the sheet tightly around her body. "Why do you want to know?"
"You wouldn't have risked coming to this ball and going off with Roderick Harford if you weren't desperate. You need help, Kit. Why not accept mine?"
She looked away, knowing that she feared him and not wanting to explain why.
As if reading her mind, he asked, "Why won't you trust me?"
"I can't afford to make a mistake," she said tightly. "There's too much at stake."
"I would never harm you or your sister, and in your heart you know that."
She did know, but the knowledge did not eliminate her wariness. She temporized with part of the truth. "I've never found men very trustworthy. My father could charm the scales off a snake, but heaven help anyone who dared rely on him."
"I am not your father." He took her cold hand, his warm clasp engulfing her fingers. "I try very hard to do what I say I will, and I'm generally considered quite good at solving problems. Why not let me try to solve yours?"