Anne O'Brien - The Runaway Heiress

Aldeborough was acutely aware of her anxiety in the tension in every part of her body, in the rapid beat of her pulse beneath his lips. ‘Do you trust me?’

She stood rigidly in his embrace.

‘I don’t know,’ she replied honestly, her eyes wide with apprehension.

His answering touch was gentle, holding her captive, pressing her soft curves to the length of his body. He moved his hands to caress the sides of her ribs through her fine chemise and allowed his palms to brush the soft swell of her breasts. Then, as she heard his own breathing change, he let his hands fall and stepped back—but only to kneel at her feet with elegant grace to remove her garters. His fingers stroked the satin skin of her thigh, calf, ankle, as he smoothed her stockings down to her delicately arched feet.

At last he rose, pausing to snuff the branch of candles to allow her the anonymity of darkness.

He stood and looked at her in the flickering shadows cast by the one remaining candle. Her eyes were dark and fathomless like bottomless pools. Her skin ivory, flushed with rose, but icy, her whole body held in check as if her one desire was to flee from his touch.

‘I am afraid,’ she whispered.

‘But there is no need.’

He stooped to lift her into his arms effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing, and then laid her on the high bed. He was touched by compassion. He would do his best for her, to make it an acceptable experience. He stayed only to divest himself of his clothing before stretching his body beside her and began to kiss her. Gently at first, them more urgently, her mouth, hair, face, then along her throat to her shoulders, his lips burning on her cool skin. She had never imagined that her cool self-possessed husband could generate such fire. She shivered as he pushed aside her chemise and allowed his hands to drift down her slender body, brushing her nipples and stroking her flat stomach. Frances felt a response awaken deep within her when she become acutely aware of his arousal, strong and hard against her thigh. He continued his exploration of her body, discovering tantalising curves and hollows that fit so naturally against his palms, teasing her nipples with his tongue until they became erect. She gasped at the electric effect, the heat in her blood, and hid her face against his shoulder, conscious of his own disciplined breathing as if holding his actions on a tight rein.

Then he changed his position so that he could part her thighs with his knee and stroke the impossibly soft flesh. For a long moment she held her breath, her whole body trembling at the touch of his fingers in such an intimate caress. Her brain refused to allow her to respond to the incredible sensation of his naked body pressed against hers, cool skin against cool skin. He lifted himself above her, taking as much of his weight as he could on his elbows.

‘Trust me,’ he repeated breathlessly. ‘I will try to hurt you as little as I can. Now!’

With a firm thrust he penetrated her. She cried out against the unexpected invasion that filled her, stretched her, causing her to struggle for the first time against the intrusion.

‘Lie still,’ he ordered, but his voice was infinitely gentle. And he remained motionless himself except to brush his lips over her hair and eyes and then finally her mouth, parting her lips with his tongue as he had invaded her body. She allowed her taut muscles to relax again and as soon as he sensed it he began to move within her. Slowly at first. She tensed her muscles again momentarily against his total possession of her body, but his smooth controlled movements did not lessen. His thrusts became deeper and more urgent so that she clung to him, fingernails buried in his shoulders as there seemed to be no other alternative. Then, as desire finally overset his iron control, he shuddered into his climax, pinning her to the bed with the weight of his body. Frances lay in emotional and physical emptiness, sensation ebbing, leaving her devastated, drained of coherent thought. Why had she found it impossible to respond with any warmth—even the merest hint of pleasure? She knew in her heart that he had taken her with care and compassionate tenderness—so why did she feel that she had in some way failed him? And yet she had sensed something there for her in his touch far beyond her reach.

Aldeborough slowly withdrew to lie beside her, leaving one arm thrown possessively across her body. He had found her most appealing, slim and firm with small high breasts. Her skin was like water over silk. He smoothed his hand along the satin length of her back to her waist and over the curve of her hip. He had found no difficulty in becoming aroused and consummating their marriage. But in spite of physical satisfaction he was disturbed by a ripple of unease. True, she had not repulsed him, but he had been unable to break through her intense reserve. For the most part she had remained rigid and unresponsive.

He had not expected this, in spite of her ignorance. Aldeborough knew that she had a courageous, vital spirit beneath her quiet demeanour, and except for that one occasion in the library at the Priory, she had never flinched from him. Nor had she ever attacked him with tears or recriminations. He had thought that she would take some pleasure from their coupling, or at least accept it with equanimity. But not this withdrawal, rejection even. He was surprised by an unexpected twinge of failure for all his experience. He had not done his best for her. He could have taken more time to awaken her emotions and senses, but he had believed that it would merely have prolonged the agony of anticipation for her.

Aldeborough sighed and, drawing away from her, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, hunting in the dark to retrieve his discarded clothing. He was halted by the hesitant touch on his arm. He turned back to her where she lay, lost in shadows except for the gleam of the moonlight on her chemise.

‘My lord …’ her voice was barely a whisper ‘… did I displease you? I am sorry if you found me … unattractive. But I didn’t know—’

‘Frances.’ It struck him like a physical blow that she believed he had abandoned her in disgust. And how hard it must have been for her to turn to him. ‘You must never think that. I simply thought that you might like some privacy. That you might wish to sleep alone.’

‘Of course. Forgive me.’ The words tumbled out in an agony of embarrassment. ‘I did not mean to imply … I did not intend to impose on you.’ She turned away so that all he could see were her rigid shoulders.

He sighed. He should have been more careful with her. With all his experience he had frightened her and there was now little he could do to remedy it. His conscience pricked him with a full-blown blast of guilt. He rolled back on to the bed. ‘Come here,’ he said gently.

‘Please don’t be angry with me.’

Which was a strange thing for her to say. ‘Why should I?’

He pulled the chemise modestly down around her ankles and rearranged the lace neckline so that it lay becomingly around her shoulders. He pushed her hair away from her face, running his fingers through the tangles until she cried out in protest. Her eyes were closed, but he was relieved that there were no tears. He drew her gently into his arms so that her head rested on his shoulder and tucked the sheet comfortingly around them both—as if she was a child in need of reassurance. She made no resistance.

‘Are you comfortable?’

He felt the tiniest nod of her head against his chest.

‘You must never think that you disgust me, Frances. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘You are allowed to call me Hugh.’ She could hear the smile in his voice, but she had suffered enough intimacies for one night and simply turned her face into his shoulder.