She deserved no less.
Charlotte had been raised by a woman who had spent her life pleasing men. She had perhaps never been treated with respect and consideration. Her most likely future had always been to follow her mother’s path. But that was no longer necessary. Now she had him.
He gave her a long, sweet kiss. She needed to know that her wants and desires not only mattered…for him, they came first. She came first. In the bedchamber and out of it.
He began a torturously slow series of soft, teasing kisses along the delicate line of her collarbone, across her chest, then up the visible portion of the plump curve of her breast. Heart pounding, he paused at the neckline and touched the tip of his tongue to her bare flesh.
Her nipples strained against the thin lawn of her night rail. He ached to dispense with the slow, tantalizing game and take her breast in his mouth. Slowly, he allowed his parted lips to graze one of her taut nipples.
She gasped and arched into him. The delicious contact made the exquisite yearning for a deeper physical connection that much stronger. Desire rushed through him. Neither of them would be able to resist for long. He forced himself to push back his own need and focus solely on hers.
He slid the tip of his finger beneath the bodice of her night rail. “May I?”
She nodded wordlessly, her eyes dark with passion.
He tugged the hem of her night rail off her shoulders and below her breasts. His blood raced at the sight. She was perfect. He lowered his mouth to her bare skin, reveling in the taste of each dip and curve, in her gasp as he suckled her nipple, in the gooseflesh on her skin as her body arched to meet him.
He loved how responsive she was. Her body was made for pleasure. His breath caught as he slid his hand from the curve of her breasts down her flat stomach to her parted legs. He was consumed with the desire to possess her. Yet this moment was not for him, but for her. Now he could prove it.
Breathing ragged, he pushed the hem of her night rail up to her thighs and slid his hand beneath.
“What are you doing?” She grabbed his wrist, her eyes wide.
He blinked. “Isn’t it obvious what we’re doing?”
“Why would it be obvious?” she stammered, then flushed as she took his meaning.
Realization dawned on him at the same moment. He had handled the moment all wrong. “You’re a virgin?”
“You thought I was a whore?” Her eyes filled with fury…and shame.
“No, I…” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He had only meant to give her pleasure. Instead, he had hurt her.
He sighed. His mistake had thoroughly ruined the moment—and quite possibly the peace they’d found in their relationship. He’d thought she wanted the same thing he did. Never would he have believed one day he would be shocked to discover his wife was a virgin.
“Your mother is a courtesan. You grew up in the same house in which she plied her trade. It seemed reasonable to assume you might have a certain level of…”
“Experience?” she demanded, eyes glassy with hurt. “I do not. Now you know.”
He let go of her hem.
She shoved him away. One arm covering her chest, she lurched out of the bed and over to her valise, where she snatched up a mud-colored gown and marched behind the folding screen to don it.
He rolled onto his back and covered his eyes. Blast it all. He’d meant to make her feel better, not worse. To show her how much she mattered.
If someone who cared about her could hurt her so carelessly… How much worse would it be when they reached London, and other people began to put her in her place on purpose? And how much worse would it be if he was no longer there to protect her?
Chapter 16
Charlotte stood just outside the door of their last inn before London. A hired hackney awaited them at the curb, its door flung wide and inviting. Her legs shook.
She could not have wished to run away more.
London was going to be dreadful. Her chest constricted with dread. After last night, anywhere would be terrible. She could resolve to keep to herself all she wished, but the truth was Anthony was already inside her heart.
And breaking it from the inside out.
It was not wholly his fault. His assumptions were identical to those of every other man she’d ever met. She’d just hoped, with him, it could be different.
Charlotte realized he might not have consciously thought of her as a whore, as a prostitute who received coin in exchange for her favors. But he had seen her as easy pickings all the same.
He had clearly been shocked to learn she was still a virgin. That she hadn’t followed in her mother’s footsteps. In his experience, a proper debutante guarded her maidenhead because it was the most valuable social currency she owned. Someone like Charlotte, on the other hand, possessed no social currency. A whore’s illegitimate child would never be on the marriage mart. Her purity was meaningless.
Even the butcher’s son, the street sweepers, saw in her only the opportunity for a quick, forgettable tup. They had neither believed in her virginity nor cared in the slightest. They weren’t going to marry her. They weren’t even planning on asking her name.
And now Anthony. Wed to her. Kind to her. The closest she’d ever come to feeling like she had somewhere she belonged.
Yet even he had only seen her through the lens of what her mother had been.
Charlotte’s chest tightened in despair. He had once said his goal was to deserve her. She had always known she was the one who would never deserve him. Now they both knew.
He couldn’t help but identify her as a courtesan’s daughter. To associate their bed-play with her knowledge of her mother’s trade.
It wasn’t his fault. Had she not done the same? Associate him solely with Society because he moved there freely? Identify him as a rakish ne’er-do-well because that was she had assumed all men like him would be? She swallowed thickly. How could she blame him for returning the favor? Why should she expect, or deserve, anything else?
She lifted her chin in determination. Nothing would make him forget her past. But she didn’t want whore’s daughter to be what he saw every time he looked at her. She was not her mother. Thanks to Anthony, Charlotte was more of a person today than she had been before she met him. “Holding court” as an impromptu advisor in travelers’ inns had made her realize she did have value. Her mind was just as important as her body.
If she wanted her husband to see her as more than the product of her past, she would have to show him her future. And her courage.
Even if that meant returning to London.
She was returning to that cursed city not for herself, but for her husband. If there was any possibility of her father’s bequest helping to keep Anthony out of prison, utilizing it would be worth any amount of suffering.
He stepped out of the inn. Despite a rather tense breakfast—after the morning’s upset, she hadn’t wished to speak to him until she’d had the opportunity to collect her thoughts—he offered his arm without hesitation.
“Ready?” he asked.
Of course not. Taking a coach into London was like taking a hackney straight to hell.
She gripped his arm. “Ready.”
“I apologize for leaving your side for such a long moment,” he said as he helped her into the carriage. “I ran into an old friend as I was settling the account. Were you terribly bored?”
She shook her head. At this inn, at least, her face had become synonymous with a sympathetic ear. She was never alone for long.
“I met a woman seeking to hire a new governess. Based on what I learned speaking to the one who was desperate to leave the children behind, I think I was able to offer the woman a few sound suggestions for questions to ask during the interview.”