Dukes Prefer Blondes (The Dressmakers 4)

“Thank you, Mr. Radford. I have no objections. However, I shall have to follow your lead in this, too. I never slept with a man before.”

“Then we’ll start with this.” He pulled the bedclothes up over them and turned onto his side and drew her up against him. “Like spoons.”

“Yes, that’s very nice,” she said.

He drew her closer, bringing her rump against his membrum virile, which promptly forgot how tired it was.

“Oh!” she said.

“Pay him no heed,” he said. “He has a tiny, tiny brain of his own and that tiny brain is trying with all its might to kill me. I am a young and healthy man with a most desirable wife, but the brain in my head being larger, I realize that—­”

“Firstly,” she said, and he heard the smile in her voice.

“Firstly, a considerate husband gives his new bride time to recover,” he said. “And secondly, I shall do a bad job in this state of weariness.”

For a moment she said nothing. Then, “I don’t know anything,” she said very quietly.

“Luckily you married me. You’ll learn everything correctly.”

“Everything,” she repeated.

“Everything you need to know,” he said. “And possibly some things you don’t need to know.”

He was looking forward to teaching her, far more than he would ever have guessed.

He closed his eyes and savored her warmth and softness, and in no time drifted into sleep.

Later

The first thing Radford became aware of was warm, soft Woman tucked up against him. At the realization, his body came fully awake and alert well before his mind took in the distinctive darkness that boded dawn.

His mind caught up quickly enough.

He had a great deal to think about. He had decisions to make.

There was his father, who’d borne the wedding excitement well, but needed tranquillity at present. The trouble was, Radford’s marrying so high was sure to bring Radford relatives looking for favors. They’d latch on to the older man first, supposing he’d be more vulnerable.

Radford needed to be nearer to his parents. And that raised the question of where he and Clara would live. Her friends and family had offered houses. Like the Duke of Clevedon, they all seemed to have a residence to spare.

Though Radford had resisted the idea of asking his cousin for Malvern House, he couldn’t let his pride rule in this case. It might be best for Clara. And best for the house, for that matter, not to stand empty.

Still, it would cost heaven and earth to live there.

While his income was well above what Lady Warford had imagined—­the marquess was less surprised, having used due diligence in all regards—­it was not up to staffing and maintaining a palatial London residence.

He needed a plan, and soon. Their stay with his parents was to be temporary. Yet he needed to be close at hand to deal with rampaging Radfords. Between London and Richmond there had to be something. In Kensington or another London suburb.

And the bridal trip? He would not put that off indefinitely. He knew Clara wanted to visit the Continent. Though she never said so outright, he’d discerned the longing in her eyes when anybody spoke of Paris or Venice or Florence. Others wouldn’t see it but to him it was as plain as the gold letters over the shop door spelling out MAISON NOIROT . . . where his bride had spent thousands of pounds—­what her father would regard as pocket change.

When the better weather arrived, then . . .

Clara snuggled closer.

His thoughts trailed away.

He nuzzled her neck and slid his hand down along her arm and over to caress and cup her breast. She made an mmmm sound in her sleep. He trailed his hand down along the delicious inward curve of her waist, then over her belly and lower. She stirred in his arms.

“Are we awake?” she murmured.

“You don’t have to be,” he said. “I can manage this by myself. You don’t have to move a muscle . . . that is, not more than a little.”

He stroked down over the sweet place between her legs. So soft she was, the feminine nest like silken threads over velvet. Heat tore through him and his hand trembled.

“This will probably not last as long as the first time,” he said.

“Oh, my goodness.” She quivered under his touch, and made small sounds in her throat, moans caught in sighs.

He shifted her slightly to slide his knees between her legs. “Not a fraction as long.”

Her beautifully rounded bottom rested on his thighs. The rush of desire darkened his mind, as though a storm bore down on it. Even though his wilder self was taking over, driving him, he tried not to hurry. He kissed the back of her neck and her shoulders and arms. He slid his hand along her thigh, upward over her belly and up to her breast, and down again while he savored the way she felt under his hands and the way she responded, moving, murmuring, urging him on without realizing she was doing so.

He couldn’t get enough of touching her, and yet he had to have her now. In the storm of his mind images swirled of the first time—­her innocence and understanding and tenderness and lust, too. She’d begun discovering herself as a woman while he discovered her as his woman, his wife.

His wife.

He brought his hand down to ready her, and found her ready, damp to his touch, and squirming under it. He stroked her and heard the hitch in her breathing—­the first, small orgasm. He thrust into her. Oh, she was so tight but giving way like water and surrounding him and moving with him, sensation heightening with every movement. The pleasure of it was at the edge of endurable.

“I think you’re getting the hang of it,” he gasped into her ear.

“Oh, my Raven,” she murmured. “I think you are, too.”

One choked laugh, then he moved, stroking inward and drawing away, teasing a little at first, but soon finding himself beyond teasing. They found a rhythm to this, in the same way they’d found their own way to kiss, learning from each other, paying attention and caring.

He cared beyond what he’d thought possible in himself.

Because, how could he not? She’d been meant for him and he for her, though this made no rational sense. But reason didn’t signify. Reason belonged elsewhere. Here were a man and his new bride, and here affection mattered and desire and pleasing her and pleasing himself.

Their lovers’ dance went faster and faster, and the world grew hotter and darker. And mindless though he was, he had a sense of their traveling headlong, two riders in a beautiful storm. Faster and fiercer, until the storm caught them. He felt her shudder when she reached her peak, and felt his own body shake, too, as though he’d been struck by lightning.

But it was love, only love, and for now, nothing else mattered. The storm quieted, and he drew her into his arms, and once more, they slept.

I can hear you thinking,” she said.

She wasn’t sure what had woken her. It might have been the di

stant sounds of the household stirring or the not-­quite-­silent steps of a maid entering to restore the fire or the someone who’d come in at some point and drawn the curtains round the bed. Whatever had jarred her from sleep—­sounds or awareness of daylight or something else altogether—­she was awake and aware she wasn’t the only one.

“You can’t hear me thinking,” he said. “It’s physically impossible.”

“It isn’t. I can tell by the distracted way you’re fondling my breast.”

“Your breast is distracting.”

She turned toward him.

“Now it’s more distracting because there are two of them in plain sight,” he said. He ran his hand over first one, then the other. Heat and longing swirled through her. “And fine ones, too, by the way.”

“That’s lucky, since you married them.” Though she spoke so boldly, she felt a flush spreading over her skin. She still wasn’t used to being married.

“So I did. Them and this.” He stroked her belly. “And this.” He moved his hand down and her breath caught.

He took his hand away. “I’d better not start anything,” he said. “I should have given you more time last night. The virgin body—­”

“I’m not a virgin anymore,” she said. “I’m a married woman.”

“The newly initiated,” he said, “need respite. Otherwise, sometimes, an irritation develops, which can be quite uncomfortable. I’ve nursed you through one ailment, yes, but you were weak and helpless then. Even debilitated, you hit me. Hard. This sort of thing could put you in a bad mood, and you might strike me with a blunt instrument. Even if there’s no physical violence, you won’t want me to touch you for months. Or ever again.”

“An irritation?” she said. “No one mentioned that.” Not that Mama had mentioned much of anything comprehensible.

“And no one will have to mention it if we can contrive to behave ourselves, more or less, until . . . well, at least later in the day. Though it would be better to wait until tonight. I was thinking of a candlelit supper in front of the fire. Then I would prostrate myself at your feet and start licking your toes and work my way up.”