Under The Mistletoe (8 page)

He was not simply going to lift her nightgown tonight, bring himself down on top of her, and penetrate her. That was already clear. She was enormously thankful. It had always been over so very quickly, long before she could even begin to draw any secret pleasure from it.

She was not prepared, though, for all the things he did before the inevitable moment came. He touched her everywhere, with his hands, with his mouth, even with his teeth, first through her nightgown, then beneath it. Finally he slid both hands beneath the gown and lifted it up her body and over her head and along her lifted arms.

And they were both naked.

She should have been horribly shocked, especially as there was so much light in the room and the bedcovers had been pushed back. But her body was humming with pleasure, and his hands and his mouth and his eyes made her feel beautiful. She was having a hard time containing the sensations that were pulsing with her blood into every nerve ending in her body. She throbbed between her thighs and up inside, longing for his penetration, not wanting it too soon, knowing that all would be over within moments once it did happen.

She touched him lightly with her hands—above the waist—and said nothing.

When his hand slid between her legs and explored and caressed the soft secret folds, she knew that she was wet and hot—his fingers felt contrastingly cool. He slid a finger up inside her. She kept her eyes closed and tried to concentrate upon her breathing.

And then he moved over her and lowered his weight on her and spread her legs wide with his own. Familiarity returned as he slid his hands beneath her buttocks and she spread her arms across the bed and pressed her palms into the mattress and drew a slow, deep breath.

He came inside slowly, sliding into wetness, stretching her, filling her. He felt gloriously hard. She fought the urge to tighten inner muscles about him, and lay still.

It lasted far longer than she remembered. He worked her with a slow, deep, firm rhythm for a long time, filling her with himself, filling her, too, with a longing so intense that she wondered if indeed
there was any difference between pain and pleasure. By the time he quickened and deepened the rhythm, she was digging into the mattress with her fingers and biting hard on her upper lip in an effort to control herself—though what it was she controlled or stopped from happening she did not know.

He made a guttural sound of satisfaction against the side of her face, and she felt the remembered heat at her core. She was taking his seed into herself again. Despite the slight, unidentified dissatisfaction she felt as all his weight relaxed down onto her and he fell still, Elizabeth smiled and felt happiness well inside to replace the raw discomfort of physical desire not quite allowed to complete itself.

They were not estranged.

Perhaps there would be another child.

When he came for an occasional visit to Wyldwood—and surely he would come for Jeremy's sake—they would perhaps share a bed for a few minutes each night and she would be able to feel this pleasure again.

She tried not to feel dejection when he drew free of her and moved off her. He would return to his room now, and she would feel the remembered emptiness of being alone once more. But differently from all those other times, she would have pleasant memories with which to warm herself until she slept. And perhaps he would come back tomorrow night.

He lay beside her for a while, turned toward her. Then he rested a hand on her stomach and made light circles with it. He sighed audibly.

“For a while,” he said, “I thought it was perhaps more than duty.”

She turned her head sharply to look at him. He was half smiling.

“It was not duty,” she said.

“You just do not like me very much, do you?” he said. “Or is it sex you do not like? Or both?”

Joy went crashing out of her again, and she felt her eyes fill with tears.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I did not satisfy you. I did my best. I am sorry.”

“Damn,” he said so softly that she was not even sure he had uttered such a shocking word.

He turned sharply away and sat up on the side of the bed, his elbows on his knees, the fingers of both hands pushing through his hair. Elizabeth felt two tears spill over, one to pool against her nose, the other to plop off onto her pillow.

“I am sorry,” she said again. “What did I do wrong? Tell me, and I will do better next time.”

“What has she done to you?” he said. “This is all her doing, is it not?”

“Whose?” she asked, bewildered.

“Your mother's,” he said. “You are not naturally frigid, are you? I thought so until today, but I have seen you laughing and flushed and happy. You are warmly maternal with Jeremy. Do you hate me so much? Or are you merely a product of your mother's rigid ideas of what a lady should be?”

But she had heard only one thing. She stared at his back in horror.

“I am not frigid,” she protested. “I am
not
. I feel things as deeply as anyone else. How could you say such a cruel thing? I am sorry if I do not satisfy you, but I am
not frigid
.”

She turned over onto her side, spread her hands over her face, and tried—unsuccessfully—to muffle the sobs she could not control.

“Elizabeth—”

“Go away,” she wailed. “Go away. You are horrid, and I hate you. I am not
fr-frigid
I wish you would . . . I wish you would go to the devil.” She had never, ever said such a thing aloud, or even thought it, until now.

For a few moments she did not know what he was doing. She waited for the sound of the door opening and closing. But then the bed beside her depressed. He had come around it and sat down. He was wearing his dressing robe. He set the backs of his knuckles against her hot, wet cheek and rubbed them back and forth lightly.

“Forgive me,” he said. “Please forgive me.”

She turned her face into the mattress, shrugging his hand away.

“No,” she said. “How could you say such a thing after . . . after what happened. I thought it was wonderful. Obviously I know nothing. It was not wonderful at all, was it? Go away, then. Go away and never come back. Jeremy and I have lived without you for three months. We can live without you for the rest of our lives.”

“Elizabeth,” he said, and she had the satisfaction of hearing distress in his voice. “My dearest, I had no intention of hurting you. Curse me for a fool that I ever said such a thing. I do not believe it. We did everything wrong from the start, did we not? We allowed this marriage to be arranged for us. There was nothing too wrong in that—it happens all the time. But we made no attempt to make it our own marriage. We allowed awkwardness and perhaps some resentment to keep us almost silent with each other. And then my father
died and everything fell to pieces. It was all my fault. I should have persevered. I should have been more patient, gentler with you. I should have tried to talk with you.”

Again, she had heard only one thing, her face still buried in her pillow.
My dearest.
He had called her
my dearest.
No one, in her whole life, had ever called her by any endearment, except the shortened form of her name—Lizzie.

“Is it too late for us?” he asked her. “Is there any chance of making a workable marriage of this one we are in together?”

She shrugged her shoulders but said nothing. She did not trust her voice yet.

“How have you thought of me all year?” he asked her. “I have thought of you as a beautiful, unattainable, aristocratic icicle. You cannot have thought of me in any more flattering terms.”

“Morose,” she said into her pillow. “Dour, humorless. Wondrously handsome.”

“Am I still all those things?” he asked after a short pause.

“You are still wondrously handsome,” she said.

“I have assumed,” he said, “that you despise me for marrying social position.”

She turned her face out of the pillow, though she did not look at him.

“I have assumed,” she said, “that you despise me for marrying money.”

“Lord God,” he said after another pause, “you would think that two reasonably intelligent adults who happen to be married to each other would have found a moment in which to talk to each other in a whole year, would you not?”

“Yes,” she said.

He sat there looking down at her for a while. She lay still and did not look directly at him. She felt that a great deal had already been said. But what, really, had changed?

He got to his feet suddenly and turned to slap her lightly on one buttock.

“Get up,” he said, his voice brisk and cheerful. “Get dressed.”

“Pass me my nightgown, then,” she said. He had dropped it over the other side of the bed.

“
Dressed,
” he said with more emphasis. “Put on your warmest clothes.”

“Why?”

“We are going out,” he said.

“
Out?
” She stared at him with wide eyes. “Why?”

“Who knows why?” He looked down at her and grinned—her stomach turned a complete somersault inside her, she would swear. “We are going to talk. Perhaps we will build a snowman. Or make snow angels. That would be appropriate for the occasion, would it not?”

“The doors are all bolted,” she said foolishly. “It is almost midnight.”

He said nothing. He merely continued to look down at her and grin at her.

He was mad. Wondrously, gloriously mad.

Elizabeth laughed.

“You are mad,” she said.

“You see?” He pointed a finger at her. “That is something you have not known about me all year. There is a great deal more. And I have not known that you could possibly laugh at the prospect of being dragged outside on a cold, snowy night in order to make snow angels. I daresay there is a great deal I do not know of you. I am going out. Are you coming with me or are you not?”

“I am coming,” she said, and laughed again.

“I'll be back here in five minutes,” he told her, and he strode to the door and left the room without a backward glance.

Elizabeth gazed after him and laughed again.

And jumped out of bed.

Five minutes! Never let it be said that she had kept him waiting.

 

“You lie down on your back,” he explained, “and spread out your arms and legs and swish them carefully back and forth. Like this.” He demonstrated while she watched and then got to his feet again and looked down at the snow angel he had made. “Rather a large one.”

“The angel Gabriel,” she said softly.

She was wearing a pale, fur-lined cloak with the hood drawn over her head. She looked ethereally lovely in the reflected light from the snow. She also looked very much on her dignity. But she lay down carefully on the snow beside his own angel and made one of her own with slow precision and downcast eyes.

He was so much in love with her that he wanted to howl at the moon. He was also afraid, uncertain. Was this his dutiful wife he had with him? Or was she the repressed daughter of a humorless tyrant, ready to break free, like a butterfly from the cocoon? But would she simply fly past him when she discovered her wings?

“Ah,” he said after she had got back to her feet again, “a dainty angel. A guardian angel, I believe. Jeremy's, perhaps. Mine, perhaps.”

She looked at him and smiled—and then her eyes went beyond him to the sky.

“Oh, look,” she said, “the clouds are moving off. Look at the miracle.”

The moon was almost at the full, and suddenly, it seemed, the sky was studded with stars. They looked unusually bright tonight, perhaps because he was in the country rather than in London, as he usually was. One in particular drew his eyes. He stepped a little closer to her and pointed, so that she could look along the length of his arm to that particular star.

“I believe the Wise Men are on their way after all,” he said.

“Edwin,” she said softly, “have you ever known a more perfect Christmas?”

The sound of his name on her lips warmed him. No, he never had—he had never known a more perfect Christmas or a more perfect moment. If he held his breath, could he hold on to it forever?

“I have not,” he told her.

He was about to set one arm about her waist, to draw her to him, to begin, perhaps—one year late but surely not
too
late—to speak the words of the heart, so difficult for a man who spent his days speaking the practical words of business and commerce. But she spun around to face him before he could lift his arm, and in the semidarkness he could see that her body was tense and her expression agitated.

“Take us back with you,” she said. “When you go home to London, take us with you.”

The words were so stunningly unexpected, so exactly what he wanted to hear that he stared stupidly at her for several moments without speaking.

“Why?”

She stared back at him, still tense, before closing her eyes and turning away from him.