“Clara,” he said hoarsely.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said. “Get this off.”
He gave a choked laugh and rose. He shrugged out of his waistcoat and tossed it aside. He pulled his shirt out from the waistband of his trousers, she helping clumsily.
He pulled the shirt over his head and flung it away, and she reached up to set her palms against his chest. His skin glowed golden in the candlelight, and his body was hard and warm like a marble statue come alive. She could feel his strength under her hands. She could feel his body respond to her, his muscles tensing under her touch. She slid her hands over his skin, discovering him as though she were an explorer and he a new land she’d happened on.
And yes, his body was a new world to her.
She’d had glimpses of little boys’ bodies in her childhood, and she’d seen statues in a state of extreme undress—most notably and visibly the Achilles in Hyde Park. She’d never before seen a living adult man’s body. It was a revelation, though at present she had no idea what exactly had been revealed to her. She was too overheated and dizzy—and he was touching her again, too, moving his hands over her, exploring her body the way she explored his.
He kissed her everywhere, and she followed his lead, kissing his neck and shoulders and every part of him she could reach. She could hear his breathing come harder and faster, like hers. Her skin seemed to be on fire. She was hot inside, too.
He stroked downward, over her belly and down between her legs, and she parted them shamelessly to his touch, opening herself entirely. She’d discovered an altogether new experience, and she wanted more. Her body trembled with the wanting.
She felt him move, changing his position. His hand came away from her, and she nearly cried out.
He said, “That’s as much as I can stand, my lady.”
She heard fabric rustle, but she was too deranged to recognize it or care what it was. She cared only that he’d stopped touching her and moved away.
She said, “Please don’t stop yet.”
He muttered something about trousers. She realized he was taking them off. She wanted to look—she had an idea of what was coming—but shyness overwhelmed her, and she couldn’t. She kept her gaze to his upper body, his beautiful–not beautiful face.
He said, his voice low and rough, “Before was the firstly and secondly. This is the thirdly.”
He came back to her and stroked between her legs. She felt him spreading her, but all she could do was squirm and tremble, her body obeying something that wasn’t her brain—
He pushed into her.
“Oh!” she said, startled, dismayed. Was it supposed to hurt?
What had Mama said? She couldn’t remember.
He was kissing her again, deeply, passionately. He was caressing her, squeezing her breasts. Pleasure surged once more, flooding her with heat. The craving—for whatever it was—returned, stronger than before.
She was aware of him inside her, and though the initial hurt was subsiding, she wasn’t quite comfortable. Yet somehow her body was trying to make it so, warming her and making her move. She heard him groan.
“My girl, I’m not sure how much more of this—”
“Wait. I think I’m getting the hang of it.”
He made a sound, laughter and groan combined.
Her head was spinning and her body had been taken over by a savage, but she tried to think what a lady could do.
Put the guest at ease.
“Yes, I’m quite well,” she said, trying for dignity while her voice shook. “You may proceed, Mr. Radford.”
He laughed again in that pained way, and kissed her again and again. Then he was moving inside her, and this stirred her up anew, more than before. She could feel her blood rushing through her veins and her heart beating fast and very hard, and with these simple bodily sensations came such transcendent feelings—joy and surprise and warmth and an overwhelming tenderness for him and a craving, too, as primitive as hunger.
She couldn’t stop her hands from roaming over his body, down to his waist and below, even over his naked bottom. Longing swamped shyness and she learned the shape and feel of the man she’d wed. She moved with him in the way she’d kissed him, taking his lead and learning as she went.
The feelings grew stronger and stronger until she thought she’d burst. Wave upon wave of happiness seemed to carry her farther and farther toward a distant destination, as though she were a ship drawn to a barely glimpsed shore. Then all at once she was there. She shuddered, and felt him shudder, too, sweet sensations coursing through her.
And after a time, she seemed to float down from the waves’ crest and fall into his arms. Contentment swept over her, and it seemed she’d come home at last, and she was safe on that other shore.
Chapter Fifteen
Richmond is a village in Surrey, nine miles from London, and is certainly the finest, most luxuriant, and most picturesque spot in the British Dominions.
—Samuel Leigh, New Picture of London, 1834
In time, Radford quieted. He was on the brink of falling asleep when a sound stirred his mind awake again.
Rain.
The day of his wedding had veered between sunlight and gloom, like his emotions in the weeks since he’d met her.
Now rain beat against the windows.
He remembered the rainy day when he’d climbed into the cab beside her, and the scent of Clara had enveloped him.
Her scent was everywhere now, mingled with his and the scent of their lovemaking. She was in his arms and she was warm and soft and perfect.
His wife. His wife.
He still couldn’t take it in. In any case, he was too bone-weary to think.
Cautiously he eased himself from her. Thinking she’d fallen asleep, he was about to draw her back into his arms when he saw her eyes were wide open. She was staring up at the canopy.
As he hesitated, completely at a loss for once, her gaze, still wide, came down to his face.
“No wonder Mama was tongue-tied,” she said thickly. “How is one to explain something like that? To somebody else? It’s so personal.”
He stifled a groan.
He’d wanted to be a good bridegroom—nay, being who he was, he’d determined to be a superior one. He’d been near collapse with fatigue, yet he’d tried to stay awake while she spent eternity undressing. He would have liked to undress her, but knew it was wiser to leave that to the maid. In his state of exhaustion, he was bound to fumble as he tried to disassemble her complicated bridal attire. Fumbling was not permissible. This night had to be perfect for her, considering the life she’d abandoned for life with him.
He’d resolved to make her first time as exciting, pleasurable, and free of pain as was humanly possible. He hadn’t had the remotest idea how Herculean a task he’d set himself, trying to maintain control in the face of her innocence and willingness and tenderness, coupled with a beauty that made him breathless.
No, never mind Hercules and his paltry labors. All the gods of Olympus working in concert would have struggled to restrain themselves in the circumstances.
He’d used the last resources of his willpower to keep matters going until he felt sure she was ready.
And all of that had gone well. He’d nearly died in the process, but she hadn’t seemed to suffer much, even at the painful part, and for the rest of it she’d been . . . open. And passionate and . . . loving.
But now he could scarcely find the strength to breathe—and she wanted to talk.
“Clara,” he said.
“Mr. Radford.” She smiled.
Ah, that smile. It could turn all a man’s resolutions, along with the brain holding them, into melted butter.
He said, “If you would allow me a short nap—half an hour—I should be glad to talk or do whatever you like. But a
t the moment—”
“I know,” she said. “You must be weary to death.”
“Not of you, I promise.”
“I should hope not,” she said. “If, after all we’ve been through, you’d grown weary of me already, I should certainly kill you.”
“And no jury on earth would convict you, whether or not you batted your big blue eyes at them,” he murmured, trying to keep his own eyes open. “Justifiable homicide, they’d say, and off you’d go, to kill another fellow and get away with it.”
“Well, men make up juries,” she said. “I meant only that, after the month you’ve had, it was a wonder you could remain standing for the nuptials. I know I should have kept my hands to myself and let you sleep, but you . . . Well, I’m not very disciplined, apparently. But yes, of course we ought to sleep. I’m not sure, though. Do we sleep close together or—”
“Close together if you don’t mind.”