A Rogue by Any Other Name (22 page)

“Please . . .” She trailed off.

He lifted his head. “Please, who?”

“Please, Bourne.” And he wanted to reward her for saying his name—his and no one else’s. He leaned down, suckling her gently as her finger moved to her other breast and she exhaled on a long, shuddering, “Yes . . .”

His hand stroked over her stomach, lower, lower still before he removed it and nipped at the soft skin on the underside of her breast. “Don’t stop now, darling.”

She didn’t, her finger wandering over the soft skin of her rounded stomach, into the curls that hid that magnificent place between her thighs. He watched, encouraging her with whispered guidance as she explored for herself, as she tested her own knowledge, her own skill, until he thought he might die if he was not inside her.

He pressed a long, lingering kiss on the swell of her belly, then on her extended wrist, the hitch in her breath at the touch a reward in itself. He whispered his question to her skin. “What do you feel here?” One finger slid over the back of her hand, lingered at her knuckles. When she did not reply, he looked up to meet her gaze, reading the embarrassment there.

She shook her head, her words barely audible. “I can’t.”

He met her fingers in silken heat, and said, “I can.” He pressed one finger into her, curling deep, and she gasped at the sensation. “You’re wet, darling . . . wet and ready for me. For
me
. No one else.”

“Michael,” she whispered his given name, and the pleasure of the simple moment was nearly unbearable. With a shy, uncertain smile, she spread her thighs and welcomed him with such trust that he could hardly bear it. He moved against her, the smooth head of him cradled against the velvet opening of her body and hovering there, resting his weight on his arms, looking down at her face, a mix of relaxation and pleasure and bewilderment, and he could not stop himself from kissing her, his tongue stroking slickly against hers, before pulling back. It was the most difficult thing he’d ever done, pausing there on the precipice of what he knew would be a remarkable moment . . . easing against her gently, just barely pushing inside before pulling out.

He thought he might die from the pleasure of it.

Her eyes eased shut, and he whispered, “Open your eyes. Watch me. I want you to see me.” When she did as she was told, he rocked into her smoothly, as gently as possible. She sucked in a short breath, pain flooding her gaze. He stopped, not wanting to hurt her. He leaned down, kissed her once—deeply—to regain her attention. “Are you all right?”

She smiled, and he recognized the strain there. “I am fine!”

He shook his head, unable to keep the smile from his voice. “Liar.” He reached down to where she was so small and tight—marvelously tight—around the thickness of him. He found the hard, straining nub at the core of her and rubbed a slow circle there, watching as her eyes narrowed with pleasure. He continued the movement as he slid into her, slow and deep until she held all of him.

He stilled, aching to move against her. “Now?” She took a deep breath, and he sank deeper, surprising them both. He put his forehead to hers. “Tell me it’s all right. Tell me I can move.”

His innocent little wife slid her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and whispered, “Please, Michael.”

And he could not resist the little plea. He took her lips with a wicked kiss, a growl rolling deep as he moved carefully, slowly pulling out until he was nearly gone from her, then rocking back into her gently, over and over, his thumb working against her, ensuring her pleasure even as he wondered if he would be able to hold his at bay.

“Michael,” she whispered, and he met her gaze, worried that he might be hurting her. He stilled.

She arched her back. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop moving. You were right . . .” Her eyes drifted closed, and she gave a moan of pleasure as he sank into her with one long stroke. He thought he might lose control at the sound of that moan, low and beautiful, at the back of her throat, but he did not stop.

She shook her head, her hands running over his shoulders and down his back, finally coming to rest on his buttocks, clasping in time to his movements, to the stroke of his thumb. “Michael!”

It was happening to him, too.

He’d never given much thought to timing his release to his partner’s. He’d never cared to share the experience. But, suddenly, he could think of nothing but meeting Penelope there, on the edge of her pleasure, and letting it crash over both of them. “Wait for me,” he whispered at her ear, thrusting against her. “Don’t go without me.”

“I can’t wait. I can’t stop it!” She convulsed around him, milking him in a rapid, stunning rhythm, his name on her lips sending him into oblivion, tumbling over the edge in a terrifying, extravagant climax that rivaled anything he’d ever experienced.

He collapsed against her, his breath coming in great, heaving bursts as he buried his face in the angle of her neck and allowed the extraordinary pleasure to wash over him in waves unlike anything he’d ever felt before.

Long minutes passed before, afraid that he would crush her with his weight, Bourne rolled away from Penelope, ran one hand down her side, and pulled her against him, not yet ready to release her.

Dear God.
It had been the most incredible sex he’d ever had.

It had been mind-altering
.

It had been more than he’d ever imagined it could be.

And the very idea that such an experience had come with Penelope spread cold fear through him.

This woman. This marriage. This evening.

It did not mean anything.

It
could not
mean anything.

She was a means to an end. The path to his revenge.

That was all she could be.

In his lifetime, Bourne had destroyed everything of value he’d ever held.

When Penelope realized that . . . realized that he was every kind of disappointment, she’d thank him for not allowing her too close. She’d be grateful for his releasing her to a quiet, simple world, where she had everything she wanted . . . and did not have to worry about him.

You do not deserve her.

Tommy’s words echoed in his thoughts—those words that had sent him home, to his wife, to prove his place in her life. To prove that she belonged to him. That he could master her body in a way no other man had.

But it was he who had been mastered.

“Michael,” she whispered against his chest, his name a lingering promise on her lips as one of her hands stroked up his torso. The long, lush touch sent another wave of pleasure through him, followed all too closely by desire when she whispered, soft and sleepy and tempting, “That was
splendid.
”

He meant to tell her not to become too comfortable in his bed.

Not to become too comfortable in his life.

He meant to tell her that the evening had been a means to an end.

That their marriage would never be the kind she required.

But she was already asleep.

* * *

Dear M—

I realize that you may not wish to reply to my letters, but I plan to send them nonetheless. A year, two, or ten—I would never want you to think I had forgotten you. Not that you would believe such a thing, would you?

It’s your birthday next week. I would have embroidered a handkerchief for you, but you know that needlepoint and I do not exactly suit.

Remembering—P

Needham Manor, January 1817

No reply

The next morning, Penelope entered the breakfast room, hoping to see her new husband—the man who had changed everything in one glorious day and glorious night, the man who had made her realize that perhaps their marriage could be more. That perhaps their contrived love match could be less contrived and more . . . well . . . a love match.

For surely there was nothing so superb as the way he’d made her feel the prior evening in his bed. It was of little consequence that she had awoken not cloaked in decadent fur but in her perfectly pristine, perfectly pressed white linen sheets in the bedchamber she had been assigned.

In fact, she was rather touched that he might have moved her there in the night without waking her. He was obviously a kind, caring, loving husband, and their marriage, which had begun as such a disastrous farce, was destined for something much much more.

She hoped that he would join her as she took her seat at the lovely long table in the handsome and lavishly appointed breakfast room, wondering if he still enjoyed sausage at breakfast, as he had when he was very young.

She hoped that he would join her as she accepted a plate of egg and toast (no sausage in sight) from the young footman, who clicked his heels together in a rather extravagant manner before returning to his post in the corner of the room.

She hoped Michael would join her as she lingered over her toast.

As she sipped her fast-cooling tea.

As she eyed the newspaper, perfectly folded and placed to the left of the empty seat at the far end of the soon-growing-too-long table.

And, after a full hour of waiting, Penelope stopped hoping.

He was not coming.

She remained alone.

Suddenly, she was keenly aware of the footman in the corner of the room, whose job it was to simultaneously know immediately what his mistress might require and to ignore her altogether, and Penelope felt a blush rise high on her cheeks.

For, surely, the young footman was thinking terribly embarrassing things.

She slid a glance at him.

He was not looking.

But he was most definitely
thinking.

Michael wasn’t coming.

Stupid, stupid Penelope.

Of course he wasn’t coming.

The events of the prior evening had not been magical to him. They’d been necessary. He’d officially taken her to wife. And then, like any good husband, he’d left her to her own devices.

Alone.

Penelope eyed her empty plate, where the bright yellow yolk of the egg she had eaten so happily had congealed, affixing itself rather grotesquely to the porcelain.

It was the first full day of her life as a married woman, and she was eating breakfast alone. Ironic, that, considering she’d always viewed breakfast with a husband who barely knew her as a lonely affair indeed. But now, she would, with pleasure, take breakfast with her husband over breakfast by herself, under the watchful eyes of a too-young footman who was doing his very best not to see her.

For it seemed that in her desire for a husband who wanted her for more than what was ordinarily requested of a wife, she’d found herself married to one who did not even want her for that.

Perhaps she’d done something wrong the evening before.

The flush had reached her ears, and she felt them burning, likely red as roses as she tried to think of what she might have done wrong, of how her wedding night might have gone differently.

But every time she tried to think, she remembered the young footman, now blushing himself, in the corner, not knowing what to say to his mistress and very likely wishing she would finish her breakfast and leave the room.

She had to leave this room.

She rose from the table with all the grace expected of a marchioness and, desperate to ignore the embarrassment, headed for the door. Blessedly, the footman did not meet her gaze as she moved across the room at a pace that could only be described as as-close-to-a-run-as-possible-without-being-unladylike-as-ladies-do-not-run.

But the door opened before she could get to it, and Mrs. Worth entered, leaving Penelope with no choice but to stop short, the skirts of her yellow day dress, chosen for beauty rather than sense on this frigid January day, swishing around her legs as she halted.

The stunning young housekeeper paused on the threshold of the room, not revealing any emotion as she dipped a quick curtsy, and said, “Good morning, my lady.”

Penelope resisted the urge to do the same, instead clasping her hands tightly in front of her, and saying, “Good morning to you, Mrs. Worth.”

Pleasantries behind them, the two women stared at each other for a long moment before the housekeeper said, “Lord Bourne asked me to inform you that you will be dining at Tottenham House on Wednesday.”

Three days hence.

“Oh.” That Michael had passed such a simple message to her via a servant made her realize just how misguided she had been about the events of the evening prior. If he could not find the time to tell his wife about a dinner engagement, he had little interest in his wife indeed.

She took a deep breath, willing disappointment away.

“He also asked me to remind you that the dinner will be the first you attend as husband and wife.”

There was no need to will disappointment away, as it was almost instantly replaced by irritation. Penelope’s attention snapped to the housekeeper. For a moment, she wondered if it was Mrs. Worth who saw fit to make such an obvious pronouncement, as though Penelope were some kind of imbecile and could not recall the events of the last day. As though she might have somehow forgotten that they had not yet been introduced to society.

But one look at Mrs. Worth’s downcast gaze made Penelope absolutely certain of the identity of the irritant in this particular situation—her husband, who seemingly had little confidence in her ability to either reply to dinner invitations or understand the importance of the invitations themselves.

Without thinking, she raised a brow, met the housekeeper’s eyes, and said, “What an excellent reminder. I had not realized that we’ve been married for less than twenty-four hours and that, during that time, I have not left the house. It is lucky, is it not, that I have a husband so willing to remind me of the simpler things?” Mrs. Worth’s eyes widened at the sarcasm dripping from Penelope’s words, but she did not reply. “It is a shame he could not remind me himself, at breakfast. Is he at home?”