Never Courted, Suddenly Wed (25 page)

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You looked too peaceful to rouse.”

Christopher could name more than a dozen things he would have preferred to do in the carriage than sleep while his wife watched on. All those things involved Sophie with her skirts up around her hips and the bodice of her gown lowered to expose her plump breasts to his eyes.

She pulled the curtain back. “We’ve arrived.”

He looked out the window at Milford House, the family seat of his father. The cobalt blue dusk sky, streaked with purple and violet hues framed the Palladian-style country house, which looked out over landscaping by the late Capability Brown, England’s greatest gardener.

A servant rapped on the door, and then opened the black lacquer panel.

Christopher exited the carriage. He reached up to help Sophie down.

Sophie stepped out, her gaze trained on the red door framed between the six pillars of the impressive estate. “I’ve always loved Milford House,” she said.

He frowned and looked at the enormous stone structure, trying to see the monstrosity through Sophie’s eyes. His father hadn’t spared any expenses when it had come to Milford House. Rumor had purported that the wood furnishings had been Chippendale’s largest commission to date. The art collection itself contained great works of the Italian Renaissance.

Yet, to Christopher, this place had represented a hell he’d been consigned to as a young boy. He’d been mocked and jeered for his failings. As a result, he’d wanted to leave Milford House and never return…and he wouldn’t have, if it weren’t for Sophie.

She loved this bloody place. And he was beginning to find he was wont to deny her anything.

He took her hand, and placed it upon the crook of his elbow. “Come,” he murmured.

Sophie fell into step alongside him. They front doors were thrown open.

“Lord Waxham.” The wizened butler greeted Christopher and Sophie.

“Barker,” Christopher said with a smile.

Barker had been with the family since Christopher had been a boy of just ten. He figured the old servant was somewhere close to his seventieth year. His shoulders were more stooped, his frame more gaunt. Yet, it seemed the man had little intentions of abandoning his post.

Barker’s gaze strayed to Sophie, and then back to Christopher. “I received word about your nuptials. If I may be so bold as to congratulate you, my lord?”

Christopher inclined his head. “Of course.” The old fellow had always been a stickler for propriety. It mattered not that he’d known Sophie when she was in leading strings or Christopher since he was running around the halls of Milford House, terrorizing his tutors.

“I took the liberty of having the State Bedroom prepared.”

The rooms usually reserved for the most distinguished guests were resplendent in ice blue and silver hues and Chippendale furnishings. “You of course, have seen to everything.”

The butler fairly preened like a proud peacock and then seemed to remember himself. His mask of formal decorum was back in place.

“Lord Waxham! What is this I hear of marriage?” The plump, gray housekeeper, Mrs. Marsh came running over. She’d been employed nearly as long as Barker, but had managed to retain a greater hold of her youthfulness. Mrs. Marsh clapped her hands. With her garrulousness and rosy, dimpled cheeks and perpetual smile, she made a perfect foil to the staid butler.

She claimed Sophie’s hands. “I’ve readied the State Rooms for you. Old Barker said not to,” she said in a none too quiet whisper. “But I wouldn’t hear of anything else. Why those rooms haven’t been used in years and years.” Mrs. Marsh guided Sophie abovestairs. “Now come along. I imagine you are tired from your travels, and your wedding. Goodness, I can’t believe Christopher has finally wed. Never thought I’d see the day. Not that he won’t make you an excellent husband, just…” Her words faded into silence as she and Sophie reached the main floors, and disappeared from sight.

The butler sighed. “Welcome home, Lord Waxham.”

Christopher stared up after his wife. Home.

For the first time, it did feel remarkably like he’d come home.

Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet

While attending Mary Linwood’s exhibit at the Pantheon in Hanover Square, Miss S.W. wandered entirely too close and knocked down a number of the finest needlework reproductions. In her attempt to prevent further pieces from falling, she managed to knock down the remaining of the fifty nine pieces of artwork.

~19~

Sophie sat at the edge of the bed in the State Room. Her maid, Lucy had turned down the blue and silver coverlet and Sophie now plucked at the gold tassels that bordered the fabric.

Her gaze wandered from the bracket clock atop the French bureau secretaire to the double windows.

Dusk had ushered in a black night sky, dotted with glittering starlight, but Christopher remained conspicuously absent.

Sophie glanced down at her modest white muslin nightgown. In her dreams for her wedding day, her trousseau had included a scandalous satin French peignoir that young ladies shouldn’t even think about. There might have been pearl detailing or a jewel-encrusted bodice.

Except, just as the wedding ceremony and guests and trousseau had merely been part of a young girls dreams, so to was the satin French peignoir.

The door opened, and Sophie looked over at the entrance. Christopher stood, framed with his arm folded across his broad chest. He’d removed his jacket and shoved up his white shirtsleeves. Sophie popped up.

“Christopher,” she said.

He inclined his head. “Phi.”

She wet her suddenly dry lips and glanced down at the tips of her toes.

“Never tell me you’re shy around me.”

Sophie shook her head. “No. Yes.” She fell silent, unsure how to tell him that it wasn’t him she was nervous about but what would follow. Her mother hadn’t even prepared her for the details of her wedding night. Perhaps it was because her mother had given up hope of Sophie ever making a match.

Christopher closed the door, and continued to study her through heavy-lidded eyes. “You look beautiful, Phi.”

A snort escaped her. She brushed her hand over the front of her simple, muslin skirts. “And you are merely being polite.” Just like that, all her nervousness dissipated.

His long leg strides ate up the space between them. He stopped in front of her. Taking her hands, he guided her up. “I’m not, Phi. You’re truly beautiful.”

When he said it in that deep, husky baritone she actually believed him. He brushed his fingers along the edge of her jaw, trailing his thumb over her lower lip.

“I want to kiss you.”

Well, that was good because she wanted him to kiss her. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes.

Several moments later, she looked up at him. A smile played at the edges of his lips.

“What?” she blurted, feeling suddenly very foolish. Not for the first time she cursed Emmaline’s absence. Her friend was the only one who could have answered all the many, unseemly questions Sophie had about her wedding night.

Christopher’s lips found hers and she froze at the heated contact. The taste of him, coffee and raw masculinity, flooded her senses and all her reservations ebbed. She reached up on tiptoe to better avail herself to his mouth, and returned his kiss with total abandon.

A groan rumbled from deep within his chest. It encouraged her, enflamed her, and in response, Sophie twined her fingers in the thick, silken strands of black hair.

Christopher parted her lips. His tongue found hers in an age old ritual.

Sophie’s head fell back on a wanton moan that she expected would have embarrassed her, but all she was capable of was feeling. Warmth built in her belly. It fanned out, a molten heat that was setting her body afire.

A startled squeak escaped her when Christopher swept her into his arms and carried her to the center of the bed. He laid her down with infinite gentleness and came to rest over her body.

She moaned when his mouth broke contact with hers, but he was only moving his exploration elsewhere. His lips blazed a trail along her collarbone, her shoulder, to the rapid beating pulse at her neck until she thrashed her head wildly upon the pillow.

“Please,” she whispered, not knowing exactly what she craved but knowing only Christopher could show her.

He tugged her nightshift free and tossed it to the floor. The cool night air kissed her skin; a heady contrast to the heat of her husband’s body.

She curled into herself, suddenly uncomfortable with being this exposed to Christopher’s eyes. Never before had the desire been stronger for a trim frame instead of her plump, wide-hipped figure.

“Look at me.” The command came out harsh and powerful.

Sophie met his gaze.

“You are beautiful.”

“I’m large,” she said, and attempted to fold her arms over her breasts to shield them from his eyes.

Christopher stayed her movements. “I cannot imagine a greater tragedy than the beauty before me being covered up.”

She hesitated a moment, then dropped her arms to her side.

Christopher ran a searching gaze over her, lingering overly long upon the sight of her breasts.

Sophie shifted, all the insecurities rushing to the front, but then her husband reached for one of the mounds of flesh with such reverence that all her doubts were cast aside.

He lowered his head and claimed the tip of one of her breasts between his lips. A hiss of air escaped her. “What are you doing?”

Christopher continued to worship the bud with his tongue. With a surprising gentleness, he caught the flesh between his teeth and gently troubled the pink tip until her head fell back upon the satin pillowcase.

Mad. He was going to drive her utterly mad. And his ministrations would be worth that trip to Bedlam.

***

Christopher cupped the pale white moons of Sophie’s breasts within the palms of his hand. He lowered his head and took the pink tip of first one, then the other between his lips.

A sound, somewhere between a moan and a groan slipped past Sophie’s lips. Encouraged by her response, Christopher worked a hand between them and caressed the thatch of golden curls that shielded her womanhood.

Sophie cried out, and bucked against him. Beads of moisture dotted his brow, then ran in a single path over his eye. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. He’d made love to some of the most experienced courtesans and skillful widows. All of that overt sexuality now paled alongside his innocent wife’s unabashed wantonness.

He parted the moist folds of her flesh and slid a single finger inside her.

She leveled herself up on her elbows. “Christopher,” she hissed.

Christopher’s hand stilled. He picked up his head. “Have I hurt you?”

In response, Sophie clenched her creamy white thighs tight around his fingers, urging him on.

Christopher continued to tease her swollen nub, working her until she undulated wildly beneath him. “Please,” she cried out.

Then, with a strength he didn’t know she possessed, Sophie gripped him by the shoulders and attempted to drag him up.

“I want to feel you,” she whispered. A becoming pink blush infused her cheeks.

“With pleasure,” Christopher said, his voice raspy to his own ears. His gaze never left hers as he pulled his shirt over head and tossed it to the floor. He made quick work of removing his breeches, and threw them alongside his shirt.

Sophie reached out and ran the tip of one finger in a delicate circle around his flat nipple. “So very different,” she said as though she’d discovered some knew species of animal.

He chuckled. “Thank God.”

She shook her head, continuing her exploration. “No, you’re beautiful.”

His lips twitched. “Men aren’t supposed to be beautiful.”

Sophie tugged one dark whorl upon his chest. “That’s absurd. And you are. Beautiful, that is. Not absurd. Though there are times when you are most certainly…”

“Phi?”

She raised up her head.

“Be quiet.”

And because her passion-glazed eyes widened with such indignation, Christopher claimed her lips again under his, effectively silencing her.

“You did that on purpose,” she murmured into his mouth.

“Absolutely.”

“They say I’m incorrigible but you are the one who is…” A hiss slipped past her lips. “Goodness, what are you doing?”

Christopher grinned and pressed his hard thigh against her hot, wet center. He rotated his leg in a slow, gyrating rhythm. “I’m pleasuring you.”

“You certainly are,” she gasped.

He worked a hand between them and once again found her moist nub.

Sophie gripped his head between her hands. “I’m going to go mad.”

His body tightened at her unabashed response. He moved over her, and used his knee to part her legs.

She leveled herself up on her elbows. “What are you doing?”

“Driving you completely mad,” he said. A bead of sweat dripped from his head and blended with the moisture along her brow. It took every ounce of will-power he didn’t even know he possessed to keep from plunging his shaft hard and fast into her hot, welcoming center.

He took a deep breath and counted to ten.

“Christopher?”

“Yes, Phi?” He managed to squeeze out past his tightly clenched lips.

“Are you counting?”

“Am I?”

She nodded. “You are.”

“Phi?”

“Yes, Christopher?”

“Do you always talk this much during lovemaking?”

She caught the plump flesh of her lower lip between her teeth. “Well, I’ve never before made love. Until now, that is. So it would seem that I do in fact talk a good deal. It might have to do with my nervousness or…” Her eyes widened to round circles when he rubbed the tip of his shaft over the golden curls that shielded her womanhood from his view. “Goodness, that feels lovely.”

He slid the tip of his manhood into the folds of her flesh; inch by agonizing inch, and it was all he could do to keep from flexing his hips and breaking through her maidenhead. Her tightness nearly drove him to the brink of surrender and he froze.

“Christopher?”

Christopher rested his brow atop hers, and looked her in the eye. “Yes, Phi?”