Pleasurably Undone! (19 page)

M
argaret’s heart pounded at an alarming rate, although she had no wish to let it show. “Your bedchamber is the only room I have not seen.”

He opened the door and extended his hand for her to enter. She crossed in front of him, and that flash of awareness she’d felt at Vauxhall swept through her, fueling her excitement.

His bedchamber was neat and orderly, with few personal items in view. It made her sad that so little of
him
possessed the space. Her eyes riveted on the bed, so neatly made it looked as if he had never slept in it.

“It is the least interesting room in the house,” he remarked.

His self-deprecating tone gave her pain. “Perhaps it interests me. I am to spend time with you here, am I not?” Her pert words surprised her, and she finally understood her cousin Henry’s choices. To forego propriety and do what one wished was liberating. “That is our bargain, if I understood correctly.”

He leaned against the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his chest. “You understood perfectly.”

She forced herself to walk over to the bed, where she wrapped her fingers around the mahogany bedpost and leaned her cheek against the cool wood. “I have thought a great deal of this, sir.”

He walked toward her. “Call me Graham.”

She blinked and averted her gaze. “I seem to have difficulty using your name.” She’d always thought of him as Graham, since she’d been a little girl. To speak his name now felt like revealing who she was.

His eyes penetrated as he came closer, so close his scent surrounded her, all soap and bergamot. “Would it help if I called you Margaret?”

She’d signed her name to her letters Miss Margaret Leigh. Her name on his lips felt intimate. “I should like that.”

His gaze drifted from her face to the bed.

She gripped the bedpost tighter. “I am not sorry for my decision…Graham. I have no expectation of marriage in my situation, so this may be my only opportunity to—to—” She was not yet so bold that the words came easy. “To bed a man.”

He took a step back. “Your only opportunity?”

She felt her face flush and she lowered her head. “Well, I am a vicar’s daughter and—”

His voice rose. “A vicar’s daughter?”

Her gaze flew back to his face. Had she revealed too much? Would he recall that the vicar that summer had been Reverend Leigh? “He died, so there is no worry.”

He scraped a hand through his hair. “Good God. A vicar’s daughter and a virgin.”

Her brow furrowed. “What did you think I was?”

He shook his head. “I did not think you devoid of experience. I did not expect a virginal vicar’s daughter to accept my proposition.”

She felt her cheeks burn. “Why does this matter to you?”

His eyes flashed. “Do you think I wish to deflower a vicar’s daughter?”

He might as well have torn Andrew’s academic gown off his back, but even worse, he dashed her hopes, her romantic dreams.

She placed her hands on her hips. “I have no idea whom you wish to deflower, but if you had such specific requirements, you should have listed them in your advertisement.” She pretended to read.
“Seeking an educated lady of genteel birth for companionship. No virgins or vicar’s daughters need apply.”

“Very humorous.” His face, the half of it she could see, had turned red and his voice was angry. “This changes everything.”

She advanced on him. “Why? Why does this change everything? Am I not still the woman who would share your bed so her brother might have a bright future? How has being a virgin and a vicar’s daughter changed me?”

He leaned down to her, his face only inches from hers. Even in the emotion of the moment, she glimpsed the scarring visible from a gap in his mask and even through her fury, her heart lurched. She wanted to soothe his injured cheek.

She wanted to slap him across the other one. She was shaking with anger, but very much alive.

With an audible release of breath, he moved away and turned his back to her.

She pressed her fingers against her temple. “I ask only that I might stay the night.” The emotion was drained from her voice. “The room in my cousin’s boarding house is no longer available to me. I must make other arrangements.” She’d already sent the money given her at Vauxhall to Andrew’s school. She had precious little coin left.

He spun around to face her. “Do you think I would toss you out in the street?”

“You advertise for a mistress, do you not?” She glared at him. “How do I know what else you might do?”

He took a menacing step forward, but she stood her ground. At least she would not let him see how desolated she felt.

He was so close she felt the warmth of his breath on her face. He placed his fingers on the tender skin of her neck, his thumb caressing. “A test, Margaret.” His voice dropped to a whisper.

He slowly brought his lips to hers in a gentle kiss, then his arms wrapped around her and the kiss deepened into something more, something unexpected. Her mouth parted in surprise and he took advantage. She felt his tongue against hers and suddenly she was crushed against him, his hands now at her hips pressing him against her.

She wound her arms around his neck and slipped her fingers through his hair. She’d never known a kiss could feel like this, so all-consuming, so glorious.

He widened his stance and held her even closer. His hands moved over her back, her waist and, wantonly, her derriere. She sighed. Her fingers played in his hair and caressed his neck. His lips broke away and then captured hers again every bit as hungrily. She did not wish him to break off this kiss. She put her hands on both sides of his face to hold him there.

He pushed her away, looking as alarmed as she felt.

“Did I hurt you?” she asked.

He was breathing hard. “I dislike being touched on my face.”

He had not minded where her fingers touched him otherwise.

He took another step away from her. “You needn’t dress for dinner, unless you desire it.”

The change of subject was jarring. “Am I to stay for dinner?”

His blue eyes seemed to pierce into her again. “For dinner
and more. You have convinced me that this arrangement may indeed suit us both.”

Her irritation fled. “The kiss was the test?”

“Yes.” His gaze was warm.

Dinner was a pleasant affair, more pleasant than any meal Graham could recall since he’d returned from Portugal. Those first dinners with his family were ones of pitying glances and oversolicitousness. They’d nearly driven him mad.

In spite of his abominable behavior earlier, Margaret conversed easily, with apparently a great deal less discomfort than his own. She displayed a curious mind and a brave one. She asked him if he had been in the war in Portugal, a backhanded way of asking how he’d been injured, no doubt. No one else had dared ask about Portugal.

He avoided speaking of the battle, confining his discourse to the people, the land, the architecture. Before he knew it, Coombs had brought in dishes of strawberries and cream for dessert.

When Coombs returned to remove this final course, Graham told him, “We will have tea in the drawing room.” He stood, but looked down on Margaret. “If that pleases you.”

“Of course.” She took the hand he extended to her.

The warmth of her skin threatened to unleash the passion he so carefully kept at bay. The sky outside was only beginning to fade into dusk. Alone, he might have sat in the library with a bottle of brandy waiting for darkness to fall, but he could not merely drink his way to bedtime while she watched.

They entered the drawing room where the sofa and chairs were so cozily placed that knees could touch. She chose the sofa; Graham, a chair. He did not trust himself next to her.

Coombs entered with the tea tray, and when he left, Margaret poured.

She handed Graham a cup. “How long have you stayed at this house?”

He’d spent about three months at the family’s estate, first feverish and in bed, later driven to distraction by his mother and sisters fawning over him, and his father and brother laboring to cheer him up. None of them had been able to look him in the face, even though he kept his disfigurement covered.

“About nine months,” he replied.

“Nine months!” Her eyes widened. “That is a long time. Have you been alone all that time?”

“With Coombs and his wife.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “That is a long time to remain in such solitude.”

He gave a wry smile. “Hence my hatching of the plot to solicit companionship.”

She nodded. “I quite see now. You were lonely.”

His laugh was mirthless. “That is wrapping it in a pretty package.” He sipped his tea and searched for something besides his loneliness to discuss. “The letters I received were quite diverting.”

She lowered her eyes, showing long, thick lashes. “Was I the only one to think you were seeking a lady’s companion?”

“The only one.” Hers had also been the only letter that had not overtly addressed both seduction and remuneration, the only letter that piqued his interest.

She looked thoughtful.

He gazed at her. “I could not resist clarifying the matter for you. To my surprise, you wrote again.”

Sympathy seemed to pass through her eyes, gone so fast he was uncertain he’d seen it. He finished his tea and pined for brandy. “I am afraid your refusals only increased my determination.”

She smiled. “Until you discovered what would win me.”

He glanced away. He had exploited her unselfish spirit.

She leaned forward and put her hand on his knee. “Do not be cross. As I said before, I do not regret my decision.”

Her touch roused thoughts of sharing her bed and the delights they could create beneath the covers.

She put her hand back in her lap. “Even a spinster wishes to experience life.”

“A spinster?” It seemed the wrong term to describe her, especially when his body ached for her.

She blushed. “I am three and twenty and have no prospects for marriage. As I said, this might be my only chance.”

Graham slanted a glance toward her. “Are you certain you are a vicar’s daughter?”

She laughed. “Yes. I am afraid I am.”

“There is something of this that makes no sense.” Mere curiosity did not explain it, nor sacrifice for a brother.

She looked down at her tea.

There was something she was not telling him, he was certain of it.

“Shall I play the pianoforte for you?” she asked.

“Only if you wish to.” He thought of pressing her for the whole truth. He, however, had no intention of explaining himself to her. He would not tell her he was the younger son of Baron Veall, nor what his regiment had been, nor how his face had been slashed nor how he’d almost died of fever. Better they not truly know each other. Better that this interlude feel like a dream, allowed to fade upon wakening.

She cleared her throat. “Shall I read to you?”

“No.” His mind could not attend a book.

She glanced away and back. “Would you desire to play cards?”

“No, please.” He could not concentrate on cards. His mind was filled with thoughts of bedding her.

She averted her gaze again and sipped her tea. The silence between them stretched on.

He forced himself to speak. “Forgive me.” He could not tell her what consumed him—the thought of undressing her, of running his hands along her bare skin, of plunging inside her and at last feeling release. “I am unused to entertaining.”

“I thought I was to entertain you.” She peered at him. “What did you do in the evenings when you were alone?”

Besides drink?
he wanted to say. “I sometimes took walks outside. When it became dark, that is.”

“You walked in the dark?” Her lovely brown eyes widened.

He frowned. “I do not go out in daylight.”

“For fear you will be seen?” She put down her teacup. “That is nonsensical, Graham. Is it not an injury you have, nothing more? It cannot be so dreadful that you must hide in the dark.”

“I will not speak about my injury,” he said through clenched teeth.

“I am persuaded that you ought to talk about it, Graham,” she spoke earnestly. “You have altered your whole life around it.”

“Out of necessity,” he snapped. “Do not presume to advise me on what you know nothing about.”

Her eyes were full of concern. “I want to know of it, Graham,” she said in a quiet voice.

He stiffened. “You want me to remove my mask.”

She nodded. “How else am I to understand?”

“I do not require your understanding,” he roared. “I will not show you the monster beneath the mask. There will be no display of horror here, and if you intend to harp upon this subject, you may return to London in the morning.” He stood.
“Play the pianoforte. Read. Do as you wish. I am retiring for the night.”

Graham stormed out of the room without looking back. He did not head for his bedchamber, however. Instead, he strode to the door at the rear of the lodge and out into the cool evening air. It was not quite dark, but he hardly cared who saw him.

Except the young woman standing at the drawing room window watching his retreat.

G
raham walked until he returned to his senses. By that time, night had fallen and only a sliver of a moon lit his path back to the lodge.

His disfigurement set him apart from other people. He well knew that, but he ought not to have vented his spleen at Margaret. She had never heard the gasps of horror when people saw his face. She’d never seen the disgust on their faces and how they quickly turned away. Graham could not bear for Margaret to turn away.

He groaned. This cabbage-headed plan of his to alleviate the dreariness of his life was nothing more than a sordid manipulation. He wanted her in bed and he’d figured out what to offer her that she could not refuse. How dishonorable of him.

Setting his chin, he resolved to give Margaret the funds for Cambridge and the annuity, then set her free.

Such altruism did not lift his foul mood as he walked back in the house and up the stairs to his bedchamber.

He closed the door, peeled off his coat and kicked off his shoes and stockings. Coombs had turned down the bed and left a lamp burning. Graham caught his image in the mirror
as he untied the lacings of his mask and pulled it off so he could splash cool water on his face.

He’d just put the towel down when the door opened. Clapping his hand over his scars, he spun around.

Margaret stood in the doorway that connected their two rooms, looking like an angel come to earth in her white muslin nightdress with her hair loose about her shoulders.

He turned away from her and grabbed his mask. As he fumbled for the laces, he heard the swish of her skirts and felt her fingers take the laces and tie them.

“Have I positioned it correctly?” she asked.

He adjusted it. “Yes.” He turned to her more slowly. “You did not have to come. I will require nothing of you, Margaret.”

She looked up at him. “I had to apologize once more.” She lifted her fingers to his mask, but lowered them again. “It is your right to hide beneath your mask if you wish.”

He checked the laces to make certain they were tight enough.

She licked her lips, and he felt desire pulse through him once more. It must have taken a great deal of boldness for a virginal vicar’s daughter to agree to bed a disfigured stranger.

“I came here to make you happy,” she said. “Not to cause you distress.” The rapid rise and fall of her chest, distracting in itself, suggested she was not as calm as she sounded. She touched the cloth of his shirtsleeve, and he felt it as if she’d caressed his skin. “May we not simply…proceed?”

He gazed down at her inviting lips. “Are you certain of this?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“Do you know how to take care of yourself? To prevent a child?” He would not compound the cost to her by creating this complication.

She lowered her head. “The actresses in my cousin’s boarding house taught me what to do.”

He still hesitated.

She took a step back and untied the ribbons of her nightdress. She pushed the white fabric over her shoulders and let the gown slip down her body to the floor. His gaze wandered over her, slow and savoring. Her skin glowed like candlelight on silk. From her luxuriantly full breasts to her narrow waist and long slim legs, she reminded Graham of the painting he’d seen in Florence when on his grand tour.

Venus Rising from the Sea.

He gazed into her face, and her eyes pleaded. “Do I please you, Graham?”

“You please me,” he said, his voice so low he hoped she’d heard.

Her eyes darkened, and she stepped forward to undo his shirt’s buttons and lift it over his head. Her eyes flickered with pain when she saw the marks on his chest, more of the Frenchman’s handiwork.

“As you can see,” he rasped. “I am not pleasing.”

She glanced into his eyes. “You must have been terribly injured.”

He stroked her unmarked cheek. “Not enough to kill me.”

He’d often cursed the fate that spared him, but at this moment he was glad to be alive, to be with her.

He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed, his muscles trembling, not with the effort, but with a struggle for restraint.

He laid her carefully on the bed and climbed in beside her. “I will be gentle with you, Margaret. I promise you.”

She smiled and combed his hair with her fingers. “You said you would allow no harm to come to me.”

His words at Vauxhall. “I meant it.”

He pulled her towards him, kissing her with all the pent
up need inside him. She melted into him, putting her arms around him, holding him against her. His hand slid down her back and her skin was as smoothly perfect as he’d anticipated.

His arousal pressed painfully against his trousers. He reached down to unbutton them. She helped him pull them off, his drawers with them. He saw her gaze at his male organ, so hard with desire, he felt as if he would burst. She did not shy away, and it made him inexplicably proud of her. She had more courage than he. She’d had the courage to enter his room.

He was determined to take her slowly, to make this first time one of pleasure for her, not pain.

“This is new to me,” she whispered.

“You make it feel new to me as well,” he murmured back.

His lips captured hers again. He stroked her gently with his fingertips, fearing that contact with his whole hand might loosen the binds he kept tight on his passion. She gasped as his fingers explored her breasts, and he gently rubbed their tips over her nipples. Then his fingers slid down to between her legs.

“I will make you ready,” he murmured to her.

“Yes,” she responded, her voice thick.

She was warm and moist for his touch, and his fingers easily eased inside her. A low moan escaped her lips, and she arched her back, but never pulled away.

There was a pounding in his head that told him to simply mount her and seek his release, but he fought it and focused on pleasuring her, determined she should not regret the decision she had made to come to him.

Margaret gasped at the sensations his fingers created. She knew so little of lovemaking; she’d never imagined a man could touch her so and bring such exquisite pleasure. The sensations grew more intense—not painful, but something akin to demanding.

She clasped his hand, stilling it. “Wait, Graham.”

He withdrew his fingers. “Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head. “Not hurt. Not precisely. I—I do not know how to explain.”

He held her close. “No need to explain.”

She wished she could put it into words, but it was all so new, so profound. One thing she knew, she needed his arms around her at this moment, needed to calm herself, to assimilate the experience.

“Do you wish me to stop?” he asked.

She could tell he was trying to keep his tone mild. “No, do not stop.” She thought she might perish if she did not have the yearning growing inside her fulfilled.

He lay on his side, the masked part of his face pressed against the bed linens. She could almost envision how he might have appeared without the injury. His dark good looks took on a rakish appearance with the shadow of a beard on his face. Lifting a finger, she drew it from his cheek to his chin, careful not to touch the mask, lest he become angry again.

He lay still while she explored the contours of his muscles with eager fingers. She slid her hand over his shoulders and down his chest, thrilling at the feel of his skin, the wiry hair that peppered his chest. The scars beneath her fingers made her wish to weep. Battle must be a terrible thing to so mar his body. She felt his muscles tense as she traced the scars. She did not want to distress him.

She moved her hand lower, wondering if she dared touch the male part of him.

She dared.

He groaned when her fingers closed around him.

The actresses had explained how a man’s male member
grew hard when desire overtook him. Margaret felt a surge of power knowing she had caused his arousal.

His own hand closed around hers and she felt as if she’d made another misstep, but he said, “My turn now.”

He touched her body like she’d touched his, this time caressing her with a firm touch, not mere fingertips. He eased her onto her back and rose above her, both hands kneading her breasts.

The sensation shot all the way to the apex of her legs and she heard an urgent cry escape her lips. The need she did not quite understand grew stronger. Then he did something equally as wondrous. He placed his lips upon her nipple and tasted it with his warm tongue.

Her back arched and she dug her fingers into his skin.

She’d had no idea a man would want to do such a thing, nor want to touch her so intimately. She wanted to cry out with joy, so glad she’d given herself this chance to be loved by Graham, even if only temporarily. The memory of his touch—his tongue—would last for a lifetime.

“I think it is time, Margaret.”

She would also remember the sound of her name on his lips.

“Yes.” She almost laughed, more than ready for the grandest mystery of all.

He gently spread her legs. With a mixture of fear and need, she forced herself to relax. He began to ease himself inside her, stopping suddenly to whisper in her ear, “This may give you some pain.”

He pushed, one hard thrust that made it seem like something tore open inside her. She felt a sharp pain and cried out.

He held her in his arms. “I am sorry.”

She stopped him from withdrawing, pressing her hands against his buttocks. “Don’t stop.”

It seemed all the permission he needed. He began a rhythm with which her body seemed already familiar, meeting his every thrust, growing her excitement until she could not think. She was lost in the sensation, in the pleasure, in the delicious need. She heard their excited breaths, felt their bodies moving against each other. She saw him above her, as lost in the moment as she. They were joined. They were one, sharing the need and sensation and pleasure. It was exhilarating. It was unforgettable.

Faster and faster they moved, until something changed for both of them; she could feel it. Pleasure burst through her, waves and waves of pleasure that washed over her. His muscles tensed, and she realized he’d spilled his seed.

Coming down from the intensity of that shared moment reminded Margaret of a feather floating to earth, slow and languorous.

Graham slid from her. The break from their joining was jarring, a loss from which she could not imagine recovering. Unbidden tears rolled down her cheeks.

He rose on one elbow. “By God, I did hurt you.”

She shook her head. How was she to explain it to him, all that she felt, all that seemed now altered inside her? “I am not hurt. Far from it—” She squeezed her eyes closed for a moment, before gazing back at him, so handsome, even if half shrouded. “I did not expect it to feel like that.”

She was no longer merely Margaret, because he was now a part of her. Two become one.

He stroked a stray lock of hair off her face. “I swear I will make it better for you next time.”

She snuggled next to him, laying her head against his heart. “You cannot possibly make it better.”

He held her tight. “There was pain, I know it. There will not be pain again.”

The pain had been fleeting. It marked the moment of change in her. She was forever altered, forever a part of him. “It was a mere trifle.”

He stroked her hair again and looked so concerned that she searched for a way to reassure him that to worry was misguided. Celebration seemed more in order.

He rose from the bed and walked over to the tallboy that held his washbasin and pitcher. He poured some clean water on a cloth and brought it over to her.

“The linens can be laundered,” he said. “There will be fresh ones tomorrow.”

She clasped his hand and pulled him back on the bed so that she was underneath him again. “Do not bring me too much reality,” she whispered. “I want nothing to spoil this lovely dream.”

She reached up to kiss him, and soon the dream was alive again and the changes inside her were etched even deeper.