The Conquest of Lady Cassandra (26 page)

When he finally touched her down there, she almost wept from relief. She used her own hand more aggressively so he might not stop. She parted her legs shamelessly so he could stroke more deeply and freely. Again and again a torturous pleasure resonated around her vulva, until her whole consciousness cried.

C
assandra’s cries filled Yates’s head like a feminine melody contrasting with the hard staccato of his own mindless hunger. The barest thought drifted beneath both. That she was lush and beautiful and bold enough in the end. But not truly worldly, perhaps. Not vastly experienced.

He tried not to note the evidence of that, but it was there. He had bedded enough women to know the difference.

His body grew impatient. The heat in his head turned white hot. He moved over her again and embraced her so he could lave her breasts. His phallus swelled and hardened more in anticipation of the rest.

The smallest thought suggested he should not assume she intended an invitation with her arch response while he undressed, but he ignored it. He was too far gone to stop himself, and did not want to anyway.

He lowered his kisses down her body. Her breath shortened more with each inch of his path. She knew what he was about, he was sure. That alone silenced any gentlemanly whispers about restraint. He paused only long enough to use his fingers to stroke her until the new tension he felt in her flanking legs disappeared and she was ready for him.

He used his tongue gently at first, luring her while he anchored himself to some control. Then he lost himself in the scent and taste of her, and to the primitive pleasure consuming his consciousness.

She came with a series of deep groaning cries. His own release would not be denied much longer. He went up over her and pressed inside her slowly. When there was no
resistance, he thrust deeply and gritted his teeth against the urge to ravish her.

He braced himself above her and moved. Her thick lashes rose. She watched him, her eyes full of passion’s lights, her sighs keeping rhythm with their bodies’ repeated joining.

E
ven in her sated state, Cassandra remained astonished. She had known pleasure before, but not such free pleasure. There was something to be said for not having to worry that you were doing something wrong, or might find yourself with child out of wedlock.

That was one of several unformed thoughts that floated to her while she enjoyed a deliciously languid peace. She barely noticed Ambury’s weight on her. His deep breaths seemed to encourage time to remain unnaturally slow.

He moved off her, and it broke the spell. Bit by bit, she accommodated her physical self again, and the existence of time and place.

He did not leave her the way she expected. Instead, he lay on his back, one arm crooked beneath his head. His eyes remained closed and his teeth slightly parted. He appeared contented enough, although, on second glance at his profile, she thought she saw the smallest frown.

Perhaps she had been too bold? It was possible that he believed she should have been less agreeable to what he had done. Men could think like that. They were not always fair in the way they judged such things. They could descend into idiocy even if it was not in their best interests.

Those unexpected nether kisses had been one astonishment, but another had been even more surprising. She tried to decide if she should speak of that one odd moment that now begged for clarification. She would let it pass if he did not appear contemplative, and if she did not suspect his thoughts were becoming very masculine in the least logical way.

“I think, as wedding nights go, this has been a better one than most women can hope to know,” she said.

His expression softened. “Most men too, especially since it is not likely most brides bother with flattery afterward.”

“That is because most brides are virgins, and know little pleasure on their wedding night. I was not, of course.”

Silence.

Oh, yes, he was thinking like a man. Who would have expected this when it came to her, of all women?

“You were not sure about that, I think,” she said. “You were surprisingly careful, just in case. That was thoughtful of you.”

She received no response again. They would not speak of it, just as he had promised in the garden. He had not asked about her past then, and he would not now. He truly did not want to know. What a gem of a husband. Truly remarkable.

“Who was it?”

Not remarkable enough.

The question did not annoy her. She only wished that he had held this conversation when she invited it, before they wed.

“Not him.”

She did not want to say more, but she was glad to be explicit regarding Lakewood. Perhaps Ambury would think better of her now that he knew for certain that nothing warranting marriage had occurred that day six years ago.

“If not him, then who?”

“You said you did not want to know my history.”

“A day ago I did not, and a day hence I may not. Today I find myself very curious.” He turned on his side and rose up on his arm. “You are not as experienced as the rumors imply. Bold is not the same thing as expert or jaded.”

“I did not realize that you were taking stock of me so thoroughly, and forming judgments.”

“Not judgments. Just questions.”

He waited like a man entitled to answers. How irritating.

“Apparently you are not as worldly as you thought either,” she said, “to care about such things.”

“In these circumstances, that is true, and it is a surprising discovery. If you were a mistress and not a wife, no doubt I would not give a damn.”

“It might be wise to think of me as the former, then.”

“Tonight, at least, that is impossible.”

She hoped he did not expect apologies and tears and a dramatic confession. She had never misled him.

“When I returned from the tour of Europe with my aunt, I met an army officer. He was very dashing. He impressed me by not caring about the scandal with Lakewood. I agreed to marry him. One day, he called and my aunt, who had not yet retired from society, was not home. He stole a kiss, and one thing led to another.”

“Did the scoundrel abandon you after he had what he wanted?”

“You are very quick to think badly of him.”

“That is because he proposed, you agreed, he seduced you, but he did not marry you.”

“He tried to marry me. My brother refused his blessing, then threatened to ruin this officer’s career if he married me anyway. That ended it.”

“I thought your brother wanted you married. He should have welcomed the offer.”

“He did not welcome yours, and it was far better than that of an army officer. My officer did not fit the plan, whatever it was.”

“He sounds like a man who needs an avocation. Or a distraction.” He reached out and laid his hand on her stomach. “He should marry. That will give him something to do with his time now that he can no longer scheme about you.”

“That is a splendid idea. I think I will find him a bride. Some girl who shows the mark of developing into a shrew.”

He laughed and rolled onto his back, then pushed up to sit against the headboard. “While you look for her, you can
turn the table on him and introduce him to a dozen innocents and their mamas every week next Season. Make sure none of them has a superior fortune, if you want him miserable. He cannot afford to marry for love.”

She tilted her head and looked up at him. “Why do you say that?”

“Anseln Abbey is badly in need of investment. He put it off too long. I assume he is short of funds.”

Ambury had seen evidence she had missed, but she knew little about maintaining an estate. Gerald had given her nothing these last years, but Mama seemed to buy as much at the dressmakers as she ever did, and nothing had been said about strained finances.

A caress on her face pulled her out of her thoughts. Ambury carefully stroked her disheveled hair away from her face. She looked up at him and saw in his eyes the reason he had not left the bed.

He took her hand and coaxed her up. “Come here.”

Y
ates had never been a jealous lover. A few women had told him that was one of his more endearing qualities. Many more had resented it. He took pride in that aspect of his character, however. Jealousy turned men into asses.

Yet here he was, still wondering about Cassandra. Only after he settled her so she faced him, kneeling with her bent legs flanking his hips, did the curiosity abate a little.

He caressed up those legs, and along the curved lines of her body, until he held her breasts in his hands. A day ago, when he said he did not need to know her history, he had meant it. But a day ago, he had not been married. She belonged to him now, and he did not like the idea that others had seen her like this, naked and beautiful, with stunning lights of desire in her eyes.

Not him
. That was something at least. He had not liked the idea it had been Lakewood. He did not know why. He
only knew that if Lakewood had possessed her first, it would complicate many things.

She resettled herself a bit closer. Her cleft pressed against his shaft now. He was not in her, but they were as close as possible short of that. He felt a sensual pulse in the unbearable softness nestled against him. She sat back and swept her warm, soft palms over his chest in slow delicate caresses that teased like feathers.

Bold enough, but not too bold. He could be excused for wondering if all of her experience had been nothing more than rumors. Even now she appeared fascinated with her own audacity in being this forward. When he had tasted her, he had felt and heard her surprise, even if he heard no objections. By the time he considered that she might talk a better game than she played, he was too far gone.

He touched her creamy white breasts. Round and high, their darks tips pointed erotically. Her lids lowered, but he could see her arousal in her expression, could see how the titillation made her vaguely smile, and how his caresses began causing a small frown of need.

He teased until the distress made her control crack. She moved in sensual sways that caused an incredible caress where they joined. Finally she embraced his neck and hung there, her breasts filling his hands. He made sure he pleasured them until she was undone completely.

She trembled when he entered her, then shifted her hips to absorb him deeply. His own mind dazed to everything except the tightening pleasure that coiled hotter and higher each time she rose up and lowered herself onto him.

She turned frantic, as if nothing was enough and relief would never come. She moved aggressively, roughly, seeking the connection that would satisfy him. He swelled all the more until he filled her and stretched her and his own relief flexed through him. “
Yes, yes
,” she whispered again and again while she rode his hard climax and let him pound into her.

T
he footman jumped to his feet as soon as Cassandra entered the morning room at her aunt’s house. With three long strides, he took a place near the wall.

Cassandra bent to kiss Aunt Sophie. As she did, she noticed an extra cup and plate on the table, then glanced at the footman. He was a hearty fellow, and handsome, with a tawny rough-hewn ruggedness. In his thirties, she guessed. He stared off into space.

She told him to leave. Sophie waved good-bye and smiled at him like a girl.

“Aunt Sophie, are you being too familiar with Lord Kendale’s footmen?” Cassandra asked while she sat down.

“That depends on what you mean by too familiar.”

Cassandra made a gesture at the extra cup and plate.

“I will admit to asking Sean to join me while I had my morning coffee, but nothing more.”

“Sean?”

“That is the name of the Scottish masterpiece you just dismissed.”

It was not clear if Sophie had asked nothing more of Sean than his company at breakfast, or whether she just would admit to nothing more.

It was a detail better ignored than clarified.

“I hope that you have not come to depend on him. He and Kendale’s other servants will be leaving this afternoon with the carriage, and Highburton’s footmen will be here instead after that.”

“That is too bad. I rather like Sean and his brogue. I don’t suppose Highburton has any Scottish footmen? I find myself with a taste for them suddenly, rather the way a hankering for marzipan can come over me when I least expect it. Normally I am not all that fond of marzipan.”

“I do not know if any are Scottish. I can hardly ask. What would I say? Excuse me, Ambury, but it would be very nice if you would send any Scots in your household, so my aunt can indulge her taste for…marzipan?”

“I don’t see why not. If you acquitted yourself even passing well last night, he should not refuse you anything today, least of all a Scottish footman.”

Had she acquitted herself well? He had stayed in her bed most of the night, so she supposed perhaps she had. Only
she
had hardly bedazzled
him
, the way Sophie implied.

Sophie eyed her over the edge of her cup while she drank her coffee.

“How
did
your wedding night fare, dear?”

Cassandra felt her face getting red. Sophie laughed.

“Thank goodness, Cassandra. I prayed that he knew his way with a woman better than that supercilious Frenchman from last winter. What was his name? Jean?”

“Jacques. I have no desire to defend him, but you are very opinionated for someone who was not there.”

“I saw the cut of him. He looked to be a man who thought only of himself. I prayed last night that Ambury
had at least some consideration, what with your being married to him. A lifetime is too long to have a lover who is not generous.”

“That was thoughtful of you.”

“Were my prayers answered?”

They had been answered so well that Cassandra did not want to talk about it. Doing so might break the spell. “He will suit me in this one way at least, if you must know.”

“That
is
good news.” Sophie stood and reached for her bonnet. “I am going into the garden. Will you join me?”