Now, if you had been a different sort of woman, I would have resorted to my old ways of sparkling civility and polished pretense."
"Really?" she asked, sitting to remove her shoes. "And what would you have said?"
He knelt at her feet and removed her shoes for her, his hands on her feet and ankles, his position submissive, his manner valorous. "I would have told you that since I first beheld you, with your vibrant hair curling around your face, I was captivated. I needed no brothers to commend you to me; my own eyes would have borne the task lightly."
Her shoes were removed. With a gentle and subtle hand, he inched his way up to the top of her stocking. Her limbs shook and she could not stop her trembling. His eyes held hers, green as the darkest yew branches. She could not look away and could not find a reason to want to.
"I would have told you that, having seen you, I was halfway to offering for you. Hair as red as embers, eyes as deep and lustrous as a doe's, skin as flawless as satin; what man would not want such a woman for his own?"
His fingertips touched her thigh, his skin cool next to her heat, and very gently he slipped her stocking down to her ankle. Over her foot he slipped it, his fingers caressing her arch and the delicate back of her ankle. She shivered and looked down into her lap.
"But what you speak is pretense, is it not? We have agreed upon that," she said, not looking at him.
With bolder hands, he reached up and carefully slid down the other stocking. She felt strangely nude, yet she was fully covered.
He touched her face with the tips of his fingers, tracing her. "You taught me that truth need not be uncivil. I teach you now that civility need not be pretense."
He raised her to her feet and stepped behind her, loosening her gown. He did it without an overt air of seduction, yet it was seductive simply because it was Beau. Just knowing he was in the room made her heart pound erratically. To know that he was disrobing her… she felt light-headed, and her vision blurred.
"And when I spoke to you," he continued, slipping her dress down to her feet, leaving her in her tissue-thin undergarments, "when I first understood that you had a tongue in your head-"
"Of course I have a tongue," she interrupted, crossing her arms over her breasts and moving away from him. "What did you expect?"
"I can see that you have not been shopping for a bride, lady, or you would not ask," he said with a chuckle.
"Not lately," she said, turning to him again, her smile soft. He had not taunted her for her retreat from him, and for that she was grateful. He had every right to see her, to touch her; the deal had been struck. "I have been rather busy shopping for a husband. Tell me, what is the market in brides like this season?"
"Grim, lady," he said, sitting on a chair by the fire to pull off his Hessians. "Silent and still when it is known you are looking for a bride. The women are demure and submissive, showing their best qualities first, I suppose, and then, when the dance has been shared and the turn in the garden has been taken, the truth comes out."
"Truth is always good," she said, kneeling before him to help with his boots. She would be logical and not fearful. The marriage must be consummated.
"Not in my experience," he said. "For the truth is… they have nothing to say. Demure silence is their only recourse when nothing intelligible comes forth."
"Perhaps they are overawed by you," she said, succeeding with one boot.
"Undereducated and lacking spirit, rather," he argued, succeeding with his second boot.
He should have looked rather harmless sitting in a chair in his stockinged feet. He did not. Beau Wakefield was not the least bit harmless, sitting or standing, naked or clothed. Naked… they were almost naked.
Clarissa shot to her feet and stood by the fire, logic deserting her.
"You, my wife," he said, rising to stand near her, "never lacked for spirit."
"I may disappoint you," she said on a whisper. His mouth was just above hers, his body massive and pulsing with heat. He would kiss her, she knew, and it would be a kiss nothing like their winter garden kiss. There was no anger in Beau now, only desire.
She was more comfortable with his anger.
"You will never disappoint me," he said softly as his mouth took hers.
He was gentle when she had expected raw passion. She was grateful, for bold he might call her, but she was afraid. His arms wrapped around her and held her tenderly, warmly, welcoming her into his embrace. She sighed away her tension and her fear as his kiss lifted her up to meet his desire.
With ease, he held her in his arms, kissing her face, her throat, her mouth, murmuring words she could not understand beyond his intent; he wished to soothe her, to arouse her. He was succeeding.
And with that thought, she realized that she wanted him to succeed. His success would be hers. She wanted his arousal; had she not realized that before? She wanted him to want her, and he did, and in wanting her, he fed her own desire for him. For she did desire him.
Bold as she was, she let him know it.
"I want you," she said against his throat, her arms wrapping themselves around him, her mouth hot against his skin.
He could feel her nipples pushing against the thin lawn of her undergarment, feel the tension of fear leave her to be replaced by the tense demands of passion. She wanted him. The words settled upon him like golden netting. She wanted him for more than his Irish lands, and her decision to wed him had been grounded in more than hard practicality. In his heart he had known it. But how sweet the words.
"Good," he said to her, laying her upon the bed and lying atop her. She was soft and firm and willing; praise God for a willing virgin on the bridal bed. But he had not expected less from Clarissa. Fear and timidity would never rule her.
He cupped her through her gown and she spread her legs wide for him, moaning her willingness. She was already wet, but he would not rush her. Her skin was white as cream and as smooth, her eyes dark and full in the flickering light, her mouth open and panting.
"Bare yourself to me, Clarissa," he commanded, sitting back from her.
For a moment she paused, and then she smiled. "If you'll do me the same courtesy, my lord."
With quick hands they slid off their remaining clothing. Naked on the bed, they studied each other. He was darkness to her fire and light, and they wished only to combine and consume each other.
"Beautiful," he said softly. His eyes scoured her and she shivered in response. He reached for her, pulling her to him by the back of her exposed and slender neck, and then urged her down at the foot of the bed.
"Do it quickly," she whispered.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said, looking into her eyes.
"Don't hurt me," she said, "but do it now. I cannot bear the waiting."
No, that would little suit her. Bold action was her way.
Hands on her breasts, he touched her, arousing her, pleasuring her, thinking only of bringing her to such need that his taking of her would be a release and not a fear-filled memory to cloud their future together. His mouth moved everywhere upon her. Her skin was hot and soft, her limbs twitching with flares of passion as they surged through her. She was a most willing bride, trusting him to protect her and please her. He would. He would do nothing less.
He spread her and she sighed. When he touched her, she groaned and pulled him to her breast. His mouth found her nipple and he teased her to the next level of desire.
"Please. Hurry," she said in a moan, thrashing beneath him.
"A truth I was most anxious to hear," he murmured against her skin. "It will be uncomfortable at first," he said. "I will do all I can to keep you from pain."