Indiscreet (18 page)

How could she answer that? She felt herself blushing. The compliment felt good.

“If there is,” he said, coming toward her, “I will think of it—some other time.”

He kissed her, setting his hands at her waist. He did not this time strip her immediately of her one garment. She was glad of it, though she had not questioned his right to do so that other time.

“Come to bed,” he said, his lips still against hers.

He blew out the candles this time before joining her there. She was glad of that too. Not that she had been particularly distressed the other time, but she had been self-conscious, aware that she was to a certain extent on display. She wanted to be able to lose herself in the experience tonight, rather as—yes, rather as she could lose herself in music when she played. She wanted to lose herself in beauty and harmony and passion. She liked the analogy.

He was naked when he joined her. She closed her eyes as he kissed her and as his hands began to fondle her through the cotton of her nightgown. She could remember how he looked, splendidly proportioned and beautiful, one old saber scar across his right shoulder and another over his right hip. But she did not need sight. She could feel his tall and powerfully muscled body. She
could smell his cologne and his masculinity. Tonight she set herself consciously to enjoy what he did to her.

“Catherine,” he said, “am I to have a passive lover again?”

Her eyes snapped open. Passive? Could he not tell how on fire she was for him already? It was as much as she could do not to move and squirm against him, not to touch him and let her hands roam over him.

“I could take my pleasure very quickly, you know,” he said as one of his hands was working the buttons of her nightgown free of the buttonholes. “It could be over in no longer than a few seconds.”

She knew that. She drew a slow breath through her nostrils and held it. Oh, she knew that.

“I would prefer to make love to you.” His hand slid beneath the cotton of her gown and nudged it from her shoulder so that his mouth could feather across it. “I know that full pleasure comes more slowly for a woman.”

Did all men know that? And act upon it? No,
all
men did not.

Her nightgown was moving lower. His hand was beneath her breast, lifting it, and his mouth was moving to her nipple and opening over it. His tongue touched it. She gasped.

“But what I would really like,” he said, his breath warming the nipple his tongue had just wet, “is for you to make love to me too.”

How? She could feel herself stiffen in his arms.

“How?” she whispered, and she was doubly glad of the absence of candlelight.

“Ah, Catherine,” he said, his mouth against hers again. “How
glad I am that you are an innocent after all. You allow me to touch you everywhere. Are my touches pleasing to you?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Do you not think your touches would be pleasing to me, then?” he asked. “Do you feel no desire to touch me?”

“Yes.” It was all right to touch him? It was not—improper? She almost laughed with nervousness when her mind latched onto that particular word.

“Then touch me,” he said. “Make love to me.”

He turned her onto her back briefly and stripped her nightgown down over her body and off her feet. He tossed it aside. Then one arm came about her and turned her against him again.

She spread her hands over his chest. It was broad, very strongly muscled, dusted with hairs. She could feel his own nipples as hard buds and moved her hands so that her forefingers could rub against them while she pressed her mouth to his chest. He was lying still, she noticed. Unfairly, he had become passive himself. But she was dizzy with the desire to explore him, to know him. For the moment she did not want him to move.

His back was as firm as his chest. And warm. She could feel the ridge of the old saber wound which must have almost slashed his leg off at the hip. It was not a thought her mind dwelled upon. Her hand slid lightly forward over the wound, over his hip—and would have shied away. But he would not allow it.

“Yes,” he said almost fiercely. “Yes, Catherine. Touch me.”

Hard and long. Ready for her. Her fingers moved lightly over him and then her hand closed about him when she knew from his sharp inward breath that she was pleasing him. How could
there possibly be room? But she knew that there was. There was a throbbing deep inside her where she wanted him to be.

“God, woman,” he said, and she was on her back again and he was rearing over her. “I should have tied your hands behind your back rather than invite you to make love to me. Do you have magic in your hands?”

“Yes,” she whispered to him, lifting her arms to pull his face down to hers. She opened her mouth under his. “And magic in my body, Rex. Come and see.”

He was in her in one deep, powerful thrust. She cried out into his mouth with the shock and the wonder of it.

“Now you have made me behave like a schoolboy,” he said urgently. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” She was gasping and pleading, her hands moving hard down his sides and around to his buttocks. “Yes, I am ready. Give it to me, Rex. Give it to me.”

What followed was fierce, panting agony and ecstasy. He pounded into her, but she was no passive vessel. She thrust her hips against him in a counter rhythm to his own. She heard his final cry mingle with her own. She felt the hot gush inside. And then she lost herself for seconds or minutes or hours—there was no knowing which.

She came back to herself only when a heavy weight was lifted from her and she realized he was moving to her side. She remembered then. She remembered the feeling she had had on her wedding night that what had happened had been only physical, that emotionally and in every way that mattered she was still alone
and perhaps more alone than before because her body no longer belonged to herself. She waited for a return of that feeling.

“Well?” His hand smoothed over the shoulder nearer to him. Was that anxiety in his voice? No, probably not.

She turned her head and smiled sleepily. Her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness. He was gazing back at her.

“Mm,” she said.

“Mm good?” he asked. “Mm bad? Or mm leave me alone?”

“Mm,” she said.

“Eloquent.” He reached down and drew the bedclothes up over them. At the same time he slid one arm beneath her head. She turned onto her side and nestled against him. For now she would pretend that the physical unity she had just felt with him was total unity. There was no harm in pretending. Not just for tonight. He was warm and sweaty. He felt wonderful.

He said something else. She was too sleepy to hear exactly what.

“Mm,” she said one more time, and slid down the delicious slope toward sleep.

•   •   •

HE
was relaxed and satiated and very close to sleep himself. But he held oblivion off for a few minutes longer. He rubbed his cheek against the silkiness of her hair. She was warm and soft and relaxed with sleep. She smelled of soap and woman and sex.

His mind, exhausted from so much traveling in the past three weeks, moved back over the past month and more, over all the events that had wrought such a change in his life. Such a
catastrophic change, he had believed until—when? A few minutes ago?

He had wanted her from the start—as a mistress. As someone to bed and take pleasure with while he spent a few weeks in the country with his family and friends. He certainly had not wanted any long-term relationship with her, even though, incredibly, his desire had been so strong that he had offered her marriage even before he had been compelled to do so.

He was glad now that she was not his mistress. Catherine was not a woman just for a man's bed, even though ironically he was making the discovery just there. She was a woman for a man's life. He was not sure what he meant by that and he was far too sleepy to analyze the thought. But it seemed to him to be a profound thought and well worth returning to tomorrow when he had more energy.

He was glad that they were going to have a lifetime of nights together in which to perfect what happened between them in bed. Their wedding night had been a disaster. Tonight had been far from perfect, though it had seemed so to him just a few minutes ago. Certainly it was far below his usual standard as far as duration went. It had all been over within a very few minutes. And he had taken all the pleasure himself. He had done very little for her pleasure before mounting her in a frenzy of lust.

And yet she had seemed well pleased. She had shouted out his name at the very moment he released into her, and she had fallen asleep with flattering speed. In his arms. There had been no turning away tonight, no tears.

The next time, he decided, it would be all for her. He would
hold himself back for an hour if need be in order to bring her all the pleasure he was capable of giving. Next time—perhaps later tonight. He would have to instruct her, though, to keep her magic hands to herself.

He smiled against her hair. He had had women with hands far more skilled and experienced than Catherine's. Why had hers caused him very nearly to disgrace himself?

He was very tired. He must sleep. But he knew he would not sleep all night. He knew he was going to want her again before morning came.

He was glad there was a lifetime. . . .

He could hear Toby shift position before the fireplace, yawn loudly, close his mouth with a snap of teeth, and fall silent again.

Lord Rawleigh almost chuckled aloud. But he was too sleepy to make the effort.

S
HE
had not expected to be happy or anything approaching happy. She had not wanted to marry Viscount Rawleigh. Being forced into marriage with him had seemed a nightmare, even though she had always felt an unwilling attraction to him. She had expected to mourn her cottage and the life of quiet contentment she had built for herself there.

In the event, she found herself unexpectedly happy during her first couple of weeks at her new home. It was lovely—oh, yes, she had to admit it—to be living in a large house again, surrounded by a spacious and beautiful park, with servants to see that it all ran smoothly. And it felt good to know that she was mistress of Stratton Park, that after all she was a respectably married lady, the Viscountess Rawleigh.

She spent the full morning with Mrs. Keach the day after her
arrival—she suspected that the servants were amazed to see her up so early. The housekeeper showed her about the house and explained its running and showed her the housekeeping books and took her belowstairs to talk with the cook. The house was efficiently run and the cook's menus varied and nutritious and delicious. Perhaps many new brides would have been cowed into allowing everything to continue as before without her interference. Catherine did not interfere, but it was clear to everyone within a few days that she was indeed now mistress of Stratton.

It felt good to be mistress of a large home again.

Word was quick to spread, not only that Viscount Rawleigh was in residence again, but that he had brought home a bride with him. There was a steady stream of callers during the first week, almost all of whom issued invitations. During the second week Catherine was out almost every afternoon and evening, returning the calls, attending the dinners and entertainments to which they had been invited. It seemed that social life at Stratton would be brisk even when the novelty of her arrival in the neighborhood had died down.

Then there were the vicar of Stratton and his wife to be met during the first week and the villagers and farm tenants and laborers to nod and smile at on the street and at church while they gawked and smiled in return. During the second week she began calling on them all, fitting in the visits between those to the gentry.

She was busier during those two weeks than she had ever been before.

During the first week a dressmaker and two assistants arrived
from London. Catherine had not known they were coming. But she was given orders to spend the whole of a morning with them and was quickly reminded of the mingled excitement and tedium of being measured for clothes and of choosing fabrics and trimmings and patterns for a dizzying number of garments of all kinds. She had no choice in the numbers—that had been preordained by her husband. It seemed she needed everything for all occasions.

She did not argue. She had sewn her own clothes for five years and had been satisfied with the simplicity of her garments and their sparsity. They had suited her needs. But she accepted the fact that she must now dress for her new role. And she discovered again how good it felt to be fitted for fashionable, well-made clothes. Some of them were ready very quickly. The three seamstresses were to remain at Stratton, it seemed, until all were finished.

As was to be expected, she did not see a great deal of her husband. She was busy all day with household duties and with visits. He was busy about estate business—Catherine discovered early that he took his duties as landowner seriously and that he was quite in command of the running of his estate despite the existence of a competent steward. In the evenings they visited or entertained together, but the demands of sociability kept them frequently apart.

And yet there was no sense of avoiding each other, Catherine felt. They usually took meals together. Occasionally they found time for walks and rides together.

She found that after all it might be possible to like him. Now that he was at home and busy he seemed less the idle, bored man
of pleasure than he had appeared at Bodley. And now that they were married, he was no longer the dangerous, persistent rake. He seemed well liked at Stratton. He was certainly well respected. His father before him, one tenant's wife told her, had been an indolent man and something of a gambler. The estate had been in a sorry state when his lordship inherited. But he had succeeded in turning everything around within a few years despite the fact that he was fighting in the Peninsula.

When they were together, there were very few silences, and even when there were, they were not the bitter or sullen silences she might have expected from the inauspicious beginning of their marriage. They talked on a wide range of topics. She found him surprisingly easy to talk with.

It seemed that for now, anyway, they had both decided that what could not be helped might as well be accepted as cheerfully as possible. It seemed that they were both trying to make something workable of their marriage.

He slept in her bed with her all night and every night. It was hardly surprising, Catherine thought, that that part of the marriage was good—very good. He had pursued her vigorously enough during those weeks at Bodley, and she had been unable to quell her desire for him. He had even been prepared to offer her marriage before he had been compelled to do so just so that he could bed her.

It was very good, what happened between them in bed. He was a wonderful lover and a good teacher too. He had insisted that she let go of all her inhibitions one at a time so that she could enjoy all the pleasures that could be had of the marriage bed.
Even in her wildest imaginings she had not guessed that there were so many pleasures to be had—and every night brought new ones. He seemed insatiable—always once a night, often twice, sometimes more than twice. But then, she was insatiable too. The thought could warm her cheeks.

Of course, she did not expect it to last. She had married a rake, she knew. A man of such devastating good looks—she saw how all the women of the neighborhood, young and old, looked at him—and of such vigor could not be expected to be satisfied with the charms of one woman indefinitely. The honeymoon would be over sooner or later. Perhaps when she conceived. She would know within the next few days if that had happened during the first month or not.

She would accept reality when it happened—when he finally turned his ardor elsewhere. She had become very good at accepting reality. Disloyal as the thought seemed to her precious little cottage and her life there, she was happier here. There was more of a sense of familiarity, of rightness, about this life than she had ever known at Bodley-on-the-Water. She would continue happy here. It was not, after all, as if she loved him.

And yet the thought of his ardor cooling could bring a twinge of something—of some unidentified pain. Life was good as it was now. Sometimes, if she really thought about it—fortunately she did not have a great deal of time for private thought—she had to admit that it felt good to be with him in company, to see the deference with which he was treated by other men, to see the awareness of him as an unusually attractive man in the eyes of women, and to know that he was her husband, her lover. And it
felt good to be alone with him, to have a companion, someone with whom to share her thoughts and opinions.

It felt good to have a lover, someone to make her feel alive and young and beautiful and feminine. She had lived a life of suspended animation for so long, it seemed. It felt good to know that she had a certain power over him there, in bed. She knew how to heighten his pleasure, how to have him gasping, how to make him lose control, how to make him moan and cry out. She liked to hear him complain about her magic hands and threaten to tie them behind her. She liked to hear him call her a witch.

It was a good thing she was not in love with him, she decided. It was going to feel bad enough when the change came, as it inevitably would, without her feelings being deeply involved. Yes, it was going to feel bad. . . .

But she was too busy to think such thoughts enough to destroy her basic happiness.

•   •   •

“IT
is beautiful,” she said with a little sigh of contentment. “Is it the loveliest estate in England, or am I just partial?”

“It is the loveliest estate in England.” He grinned. “But then, I am partial too, you know.”

It was a perfect spring day, one that felt more like summer, but without summer's oppressive heat. The sky was a clear blue. There was the merest breath of a breeze.

They were standing at the middle of the Palladian bridge, looking down into the still waters of the river and at the
overhanging boughs of weeping willow trees, and beyond to the park and the house. Every view from the bridge had an extra charm in that each was framed in some way by its pillars and arched roof. His great-grandfather had built the bridge almost a century before.

He had hurried home from estate business that might have kept him out until luncheon time or even later. He had hurried home because she had told him at breakfast that the seamstresses had demanded a final fitting with her during the morning. She would not be going out, then. She would be at home. And so he had hurried home. They were giving Toby his exercise—that pampered terrier had still not been turned over to the stables and the care of grooms or footmen. He was trotting along now beside the river, trying to catch flying insects.

“I have been wondering if the drawing room would be improved with lighter draperies,” she said. “It is such a magnificent room, Rex. But there is something wrong with it. I have been puzzling over it for two weeks. And I thought yesterday that the heavy wine velvet perhaps takes some of the light and the—splendor from the room. What do you think?”

She was frowning slightly, obviously seeing the drawing room in her imagination and concentrating on her picture of it. One thing had surprised him and puzzled him and intrigued him. She was obviously quite at home in a place like Stratton. She had taken easy command of his household. Mrs. Keach deferred to her with as much respect as if she had been mistress here for a decade. And she had been received by his neighbors as if she were
a princess. She moved easily in their company without any sense of awe or awkwardness—and without any arrogance.

“I think you probably have a surer eye for such things than I have,” he said. “If the draperies must be changed, then they will be changed.”

She was still frowning. “I do not intend to change the character of your home,” she said. “It is too precious as it is. And I do not intend to spend all your fortune. But there are a few things. . . .”

He chuckled, and she turned her face, lost her frown, and chuckled with him.

“No more than half a dozen things,” she said. “Well, perhaps a dozen.”

He was becoming almost accustomed to the slight lurching of his insides whenever she looked at him and smiled at him. But then, so he should be. Whenever she looked at him, he was almost inevitably gazing back at her. It was something he had become aware of when they were out in company together—one of his neighbors had remarked upon it, and two other gentlemen who were within hearing had laughed and said something about bridegrooms and their new brides.

But it was not well-bred to be staring at one's wife all the time, mesmerized by her beauty and her charm, when one was supposed to be conversing with society. And so he tried
not
to look at her so often. It was not easy. He was constantly finding himself backsliding.

He waited for his obsession with her to pass. He had had her now every night—and usually several times each night—for two weeks, if he did not count his wedding night. It was time, and
even past time, that his interest began to wane. It would be as well when it did. He was not sure it was quite the thing for him to be haunting his wife's bed as he was.

“A dozen things,” he said. “Well, as long as one of those things does not include a complete rebuilding of the house and another a complete refurnishing of it, then I suppose I must consider myself fortunate.”

She was still laughing. “And parterre gardens on all four sides of the house,” she said, “and a bridge to match this one on each of the other three sides. Oh, and a marble fountain with a naked cherub. And—”

He set a finger over her lips to silence her. “We have no river on the other three sides,” he said. “Do you suggest that I have a moat constructed all around the house?”

“Could I increase the number from a dozen to thirteen?” she asked.

That was another surprising thing about their marriage. They usually talked quite seriously with each other. But sometimes their conversation became absurd, as it had now. They could laugh together. He liked to see her laughing. It took away some of his guilt. He wondered sometimes if she was merely putting on a good act or a brave face. He wondered if deep down she would prefer to be in her idyllic little cottage by the river.

And he wondered consciously if she still pined for the man
called Bruce. He tried to put the unknown man and his name from his mind, but the mind is not easy to control. Jealousy gnawed at him when he was not careful enough to guard his thoughts.