The Wyndham Legacy (Legacy 1)

“Yes, drawings. Did your mother tell you anything about what happens between men and women?”

She very slowly shook her head. Badger said, “Look through the book, Duchess. If you have questions, I’ll ask Mr. Spears to see you.”

She thought, on the face of things, that he looked better than any of the rather crude drawings that filled that strange but very informative book. She lightly touched her fingertips to his jaw, still bruised, covered with black stubble. Then she lay her palm over his heart, feeling the steady thudding against her flesh. His hair was crisp and curling beneath her fingers. He moved then, turning slightly, then falling back again. His arm came down to rest over his belly.

What to do now?

She wasn’t afraid, just stymied, for unlike any of the male drawings in the book, Marcus was asleep. There was no eagerness, no leering smiles to be seen on his face. He certainly wasn’t ready to leap on her like many of the men in those drawings.

He opened his eyes and stared up at her.

His eyes were blurred and vague, but his voice was sharp. “By all that’s strange and beyond strange. You of all people, in my bedchamber. What do you want, Duchess?”

“You,” she said. “I want you, Marcus.”

He said nothing, merely smiled at her, and closed his eyes again. His breathing was deep and even in but a matter of moments. It was then she realized that he hadn’t truly been awake. But he’d sounded awake. So, it was up to her, completely up to her.

She wiped her damp palms on her dressing gown. Slowly, knowing there was nothing more for it, she untied the sash at her waist and slipped the dressing gown off her shoulders. It pooled at her feet. Her nightgown, she thought. She had to do it. In a moment, she was still standing there beside him, now naked. She felt the warmth from the fire against her back.

She leaned over him and touched her mouth to his. “Marcus,” she said. “Please wake up. I’m not all that certain what to do. I mean I am certain what has to happen, but I’m not certain how to make it happen. Please wake up, Marcus.”

He smiled at her words and said softly. “Ah, Lisette, won’t you let me get any sleep at all? You’re more greedy than a bloody man.” His hands came up and cupped her loose breasts. She sucked in her breath, but managed to hold herself still. He was kneading her breasts now, lifting them, massaging them, filling his hands with her, all the while, his eyes were closed. She saw the outline of him change beneath the sheet. She knew what that meant. It meant that this particular part of him, the most important part in terms of what she had to accomplish, was more awake now than not.

But he believed she was his mistress.

Suddenly, his hands moved from her breasts to encircle her waist. He lifted her over him, pushing at her legs so that she was straddling him, her hands supporting herself against his chest, her hair coming over her shoulders to touch him. His hands were again on her breasts, and he was moaning softly as he caressed her.

She was too terrified to move.

“What is this?” he whispered, then laughed over a moan. He slipped his hand beneath her buttocks and drew the sheet down. She felt him hard beneath her. The heat of him was incredible. She hadn’t imagined anything like this.

He breathed deeply, and now both his hands lifted her and she felt him stiffening, felt him now hot against her, and didn’t know what to do.

“What is this, Lisette? You’re not ready for me yet you want me to wake up and pleasure you again? Hold still, yes, that’s right, just hold still and let me enjoy you.” He pulled her forward so that she was lying on his chest. He found her mouth and she felt the heat of him, the sweet warmth that made her open her mouth immediately, wanting the taste of him, and his tongue touched hers and she jumped slightly, and he laughed softly into her mouth. She focused on his tongue, on the movement of his lips until suddenly his fingers were on her, pulling gently at her flesh and easing inside her. She cried out, she couldn’t help it, but he soothed her, stroking her hips, as if she were an animal, she thought wildly, and he sought to calm her. His fingers hurt but he didn’t stop what he was doing, going in and out of her, stretching her, and she raised her face, biting her bottom lip to keep quiet. She knew what he would do. She wasn’t stupid, but she didn’t want it, for the pain was building now, raw and deep and she’d felt him before he’d pulled her forward to lie against his chest, and she knew he was much larger than the two fingers inside her. Now she felt the dampness of herself and it was embarrassing, but she didn’t have time to consider that because he was pushing her upright again, over him, then lifting her and she felt him hard and pushing against her and suddenly he was inside her and he was groaning with his pleasure in it.

She didn’t want to cry out. She refused to. She splayed her palms on his chest, closing her eyes and her mouth as he deepened inside her, deeper and deeper until he was pressing against her maidenhead and she felt it, actually felt him there, pushing harder and harder until, with no warning, he threw back his head and gritted his teeth, his hands tightened around her flanks and he lifted his hips even as he brought her hard down on him.

A cry ripped from her throat, she couldn’t help it. The pain, the deep burning, was horrible. Surely he could go no deeper into her, but then he did and she didn’t think she could bear it further.

He was lifting her and lowering her now, rhythmically, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, and he was breathing hard, jerking his hips, and she opened her eyes and looked down at his face. There was a dark flush on his cheeks, his eyes were closed and his lips were parted. He appeared to be in pain. That made two of them, she thought, then all rational thought dissolved when he quickened his thrusts until he was frantically jerking into her, his legs and chest heaving, and his breath was catching in his throat and he groaned loudly, his head thrown back on the pillow now and she was crying, she tasted her tears in her mouth, the salt of them, felt the pain of his fingers digging into her hips and the endless pain of him deep inside her.

Then it was over. He was utterly still beneath her. He sighed deeply and his head rolled to the side. His hands fell from her. She felt his legs sprawl beneath her. He was still deep inside her, but the pain had lessened now for there was wetness from him, his seed, she knew, and it helped, at least it helped reduce the intense pressure inside her.

She felt the rumbling in him as his chest heaved slightly, and again he opened his eyes. He frowned up at her. “Duchess,” he said. “By God, it’s you, isn’t it, Duchess? Pretending to be Lisette this time. Why are you here? Why am I inside you? This can’t be, it can’t. I’m dreaming. Yes, it’s a dream.” His mouth closed. He shuddered then fell perfectly still once more. She felt him come out of her, and very slowly she slipped off him to stand beside the bed. Her legs were sore, the muscles of her inner thighs trembling.

The single sheet was tangled around his knees. She stared down at him, at his flat belly, at the tangle of black hair at his groin, at his sex, soft now, but wet with himself and with her, she supposed, and with her blood. She shuddered and quickly pulled the sheet back to his waist.

She jerked her nightgown over her head, then pulled the dressing gown over it. She didn’t cry until she was in her own bedchamber, huddled beneath a mound of blankets. She couldn’t seem to get warm.

She fell asleep, a sleep fraught with phantoms that had no faces, that brought her pain, she knew it was pain, yet she couldn’t seem to move, and they were laughing and laughing. Then suddenly, she was more awake than she was the moment before and she felt more warmth than she should feel. She turned into the warmth, the flesh that felt so wonderful pressed against her. This wasn’t a phantom and if it was from her dreams, then she would hold it tightly to her for there was no pain here, no faceless fear. Large hands that were stroking down her back, pulling her closer, molding her to him, and she felt the thick hair of his chest against her breasts, and then lower, the heaviness of him, and he had her hips in his hands and pushing her rhythmically against him. She awoke with a start.

It was no phantom spun from her dreams. It was Marcus. He was in her bed and he was naked and she was naked as well. What had happened to her nightgown? His hands were sifting through her hair as he kissed her neck, the lobe of her ear. He blew softly at the tendrils of hair in his way. He kissed her chin and then her mouth, and she didn’t know what this was, this immense warmth and urgency that was beginning to invade her. She felt her legs pressing against his, hers so very smooth and his hard with muscle.

“Marcus,” she whispered, and she pulled his head down to hers and kissed him. “Marcus,” she said again into his mouth. “I’m not Lisette. I’m not your mistress.”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I know.” He was kissing her deeply now and his hands were on her breasts veiled with her hair—her body remembered the pleasure of his fingers on her flesh, remembered very well, but then he was going lower, his hand between their bodies and he was touching her, feeling the dampness of her, and she felt that smile of his, touching her mouth, and then

he was on top of her and she felt the weight of him pushing her down, the heaviness of his legs, but his hands were beneath her hips, drawing her upward, and he slowly eased into her. She heard his breath catch, felt him going deeper and the pain wasn’t so bad this time, but it was there despite the dampness still within her, and she tried to pull away from him, but he held her tightly until he came over her and she felt him touching her womb.