Harmony (34 page)

“Heavens, no.” The denial came out in a rush. “Absolutely not. Never.” His silence goaded; she dissolved like mush with a defeated sigh and slump of her shoulders. “Only one.”

His low chuckle wrapped around her. “You always manage to surprise me.”

“I surprise myself, too.” To her ears, she sounded hesitant. Unsure. But she was sure. Very. “I . . . I don't want to dance.” Then before her courage faltered, she took his hand in hers and led him through the parlor into the vestibule. He walked with her, but stopped at the base of the stairs. She turned, her eyes downcast. It was difficult to look at him. It wasn't as if she felt immoral, it was just that she'd never done this sort of thing before—been the aggressor, that is. Embarrassment did have a slight hold on her. “I've been thinking—”

“Edwina . . . Edwina.” His fingers tightened over hers. “You don't have to do something that you don't want to. I never meant for you to—”

“No.” She silenced him with a finger to his lips.
“Where this is leading isn't something I'm afraid of. I'm twenty-four, Tom.” Then to make herself perfectly clear, she repeated, “I know what we're doing.”

Uncertainty could be seen in his stance, but nothing was definable on his face. It was too dark. “Do you really, Edwina?”

Her hand lowered. “Yes. I do.” She felt no blush. No heat on her cheeks. Perhaps it was because the vestibule was nearly black. “Come with me.”

She began to climb the stairs, one hand on the railing, the other clutching Tom's. Once on the second-floor landing, she proceeded down a narrow hall, very dim, illuminated by a single taper on a side table. The channel of cool air brought out gooseflesh on her arms. She went into the third doorway on her right, where yet another slender candle flickered, its thin wick just barely burning enough to see by. In here, the atmosphere was warmer. The space was built above the fireplace downstairs; the heat from the fire rose enough for comfort.

This was her bedroom, of course, large and simple. Actually, it was very feminine when she stood back and gazed at it through Tom's eyes. The bed was canopied in swags of floral-patterned fabric that fell in pools by the head of the bed on either side of the oak frame. She favored pillows; a collection of them added dimension. Most she had made herself. Some were lace, others were satin—heart-shaped, delicate ovals. A tall wardrobe stood against one wall; the bay window on the other wall had cushioned seats, the very ones on which Crescencia had sat, suggesting Edwina wear the green nun's veiling. What Edwina planned
not
to wear very shortly would be far more scandalous than the youngish green on a woman of her age.

Off the bedroom, there was a bathroom. And inside it, a claw-legged bathtub with hot and cold running water. Her mother had had it installed two years ago, an expense Edwina agreed was worth every cent. On the marble-top bureau, her toiletries lay neatly arranged: brush and comb, bottles of perfume, ribbons and fancy
pins, a porcelain hair receiver—a gift from a distant great aunt—that she never used. Beside it was a silver-handled mirror. Had Tom ever been in a lady's bedroom before and seen such personal things? Probably.

She kept walking forward until she reached the foot of the bed. Once there, she faced him and took both his hands. She squeezed. He squeezed back.

“I've never brought anyone up here. Above all else, you have to know that.” She was thinking about his reaction . . . when he found out—the secret. He would know. Men did. She had to make it clear that nothing had ever happened here, at the house. This was special. For them. Only them.

Tom nodded, reached out, and took a curl between his fingers. “I believe you.”

“And also . . .”—she inhaled, shaky and needing to stay composed—“. . . I don't expect anything . . . afterward. I don't—”

“Edwina, I wouldn't hurt you.” He brought her close and cradled her in his arms.

She allowed herself the affection and comfort, just enough to let her be able to continue, then lifted her head to look directly in his eyes. “You need to understand from the start that what this is is two adults being together because they want to. It has nothing to do with anything outside this room. No society pressures. No demands. I'm not asking you for anything.”

A frown marred his lips. “You make this sound so . . . damn calculated.”

“It's not . . . not really. I'll never speak of it again. I just don't want you to think that you have to say things to me that you don't mean. That you have to pretend. I don't want that. I couldn't bear it.”
Not again.

“Edwina . . . somebody—a man—hurt you.” He laid his palm on her heart where its beat skipped beneath his tender touch. “Right here.”

She couldn't deny the truth. But she would not ask for his pity, either. “I survived.”

Quietly, compassionately, he said, “But you still have the scars. I won't add to them.”

“You're not. Because there is nothing for me to give up. So there is nothing to hurt me.” Lowering her head, then raising it slowly, she gazed longingly into his eyes. “I have made the decision never to marry. Does that mean I cannot fulfill my life? Cannot enjoy the company . . . affections . . . of a man?”

“You can do whatever you like, Edwina. I was only trying to be honorable.”

“Don't be
honorable
.” She nearly spat the word. “Be anything else but. I don't want honor. I want passion. Give me that. Only that.” Quietly spoken into the darkness, her plea was murmured against his lips. “Kiss me. Make love to me. That's all I ask. Nothing more.”

She laced her arms around his neck and waited. This time he would have to kiss her first, show her that they understood one another. The kiss came, gentle, testing, as if he was exploring. She sighed, able to kiss him back. The pressure of his lips remained feather light. The stroke of his tongue against her was as against a fragile thing.

“I will not break,” she assured him, her fingers slipping into the ends of his cool, silky hair. “I know. Tom . . . I know.”

That was all that she had to say—two words. In them, she'd admitted to not being a virgin. No surprise discoveries. Better to be honest. At least she hadn't had to come out and say it, explain it to a husband on her wedding night, cheat him out of what he expected his bride to be—untouched, perfect.

So. The dread secret was revealed. What next?

She held her breath until her lungs ached, waiting for his reaction, for him to turn away, be disappointed, even though they were not married. His opinion of her could change—drastically.

He held her face within his large hands. “I don't care.” Then he kissed her softly on the tip of her nose.

Unexpectedly, tears filled her eyes. She blinked them
back.
Of course he cared.
He would care if she was his wife. But she wasn't. And he was so sweet, so kind, so wonderful for putting her at ease, for not judging or condemning. But of course he cared.

The pull at her heartstrings toward loving him was strong, overmastering chaotic emotions, but too irrational for her to give way to. She couldn't love him. Everything would change if she did. Stolen moments wouldn't be enough. She needed to grab hold of reality. And the only reality she knew at this minute was how impassioned she felt when Tom kissed her, touched her.

“Edwina . . .” He tipped her chin so that he could look into her eyes. To her, it seemed he searched for an answer. To a question she didn't know. His large irises reflected a seriousness that stilled her. “I have to ask . . . what about the possibility of you becoming—”

“I've taken care of it.” She loathed having to speak about pregnancy just now.

“What have you done?”

She wouldn't tell him in exact words about the sponge. It was too much, even for her. “In Chicago . . . I learned about what to do.”

“All right, Edwina. I didn't mean to upset you. I just had to know if I had to do something.”

She shook her head. “No. So we don't have to talk about it anymore.”

Her trembling hands lifted to his shirt collar. She unbuttoned the first one. Then the second. In between her arms, Tom's rose. He sought the tiny jet buttons of her bodice and slipped one free. Neither of them spoke. She finished before him. It was quite apparent that her dress was maddening to him. He groaned. She almost smiled. His big hands battled the minuscule buttons.

“Shall I?” Her voice was unreproachful.

An impatient edge mottled his reply. “I can do it.”

She stood still, breath held in, her lower lip caught in her teeth.

He finished, and she gave a startled gasp that had her eyes flying to his when he slipped his hands inside her
open bodice. Lean fingers grazed the fullness of her breasts where they pushed up from the boning in her corset.

“I can do it,” he reiterated, then slid the sleeves off her shoulders.

In her own way, she touched him—not by teasing lightly, just palms flat, fingers splayed, against the hard planes of his chest. She dragged them through the light sprinkle of hair that curled softly there. His nipples tightened. She rubbed one with her thumb pad. He made an animal-like cry that he contained in his throat.

With a lack of haste, he continued with her buttons until the dress fell in a satin puddle at her feet. The pristine white of her underwear reflected the low light, brightening her image and giving him an unshaded view. She stood there proudly, not shyly.

She peeled the shirt away from his broad shoulders; the flannel fell like a blue river behind him onto the floor. She saw all of him, the contours and definitions—purely male, entirely masculine. She'd teased him before—with the hoops. She'd known he was all man. It was so plain to see.

She drank in his body, touching and mapping. His skin was so smooth, so warm. His heartbeat pulsed at his neck, strong, steady, in a thrum to equal her own. He explored her as well with caresses—gently with fingertips, all down her arms. She shivered, delighted.

They kissed—once, quickly.

Then Edwina sat on the bed and unlaced her shoes. Afterward, she removed them and would have rolled down her garters if Tom hadn't stood over her and held onto her wrist to prevent her. He grasped and flung the ruffled hem of her petticoat upward; white fluff landed in her lap. She leaned back on her elbows, hair fanned around her. With agonizing slowness, he rolled the elastic band down first one leg, then the other. Stockings came next. Using that same lazy glide, he stripped the sheer black away from her skin. Next, she was divested of her petticoat and corset in amazing dexterity. He had
a knack for hooks, not buttons. They sprang free with simple turns of his wrist. Then it came down to a simple chemise and midthigh drawers—not fair.

She sat up and her eyes came level with the placket on his Levi's. Boldly, she unbuckled his belt and slid the length of leather free from its loops. She let it drop on top of her discarded petticoat, then undid first one steel button and another. She wasn't so experienced that she could tug his pants down his legs without a profuse blush. She stopped, gazed at him for help, and was glad when he stepped back and slid the heavy blue from his legs and kicked it aside. He was in only cotton drawers, the thin material revealing molded ridges and valleys, the indent of his navel and the whorl of hair that disappeared into the waistband. Her gaze traveled across his lean physique. She thought of the time she'd gone to his room, had seen him half like this—had wanted to touch him . . . but hadn't dared.

Without any outward appearance of self-consciousness, Tom hooked thumbs into the cottony band of his drawers and shed them in a single motion. She stared at him, poised nude before her, a little in wonder. She'd thought she'd been prepared, that she knew about this. But apparently not all men were created equal.

The pressure of his knee dipped the edge of the mattress as he came to her. “Lift up your arms.”

She followed his instructions, not questioning. He took hold of the bottom of her chemise and pulled the cambric upward and over her head. It disappeared. He paused. Her eyes watched his as he looked at her—the expanse of her throat, the thrust of her breasts, the nipples that pouted beneath his bold gaze.

“Lie back.”

She did so.

“You're beautiful, Edwina.”

“So are you.”

“Men aren't beautiful.”

“To me, you are. A beauty like an old Roman statue.
Chiseled and marblelike. But with no fig leaf,” she added with a smile.

“You'd never catch me wearing a leaf. I'm a cotton man.”

As he spoke, her drawers came free of her legs. Now naked herself, she felt an instant's vulnerability. But it quickly vanished as Tom placed unbent arms on either side of her legs and moved upward on his knees. Nowhere did he touch her with any part of him. The urge to lift her pelvis, to feel him against her was there, but she couldn't act out her desires because he'd gone to his side next to her. She'd assumed this would be the end—no preliminaries. They would come together and in a few seconds, it would be over—with them sated, satisfied—but it would be brief.

Not so.

His fingers traced the curve of her shoulder. Then blunt fingernails dragged across the length of her arm and ended at her wrist, then trailed back up again to her collarbone. Then over the top of her breast, but not around the full sphere. Then in between them. Down lower past her ribs and across her belly. Everywhere he touched, sensations erupted. Sometimes they were gentle like a breeze, and other times, raging like a storm.

The pads of his fingertips were rough, yet not hurtful. They were deliciously arousing. A muffled whimper slipped past her throat when he finally stroked the crest of her nipple—in slow, circular motions that had her biting her bottom lip. In an alternating dance, his fingertip slowly drew a path between her breasts, giving each equal attention.