Dark Angel / Lord Carew's Bride (52 page)

It lasted a long time. When his pace increased slightly she remembered what he had suggested and twined her legs about his. His right thigh was as powerfully muscled as his left, she thought idly before her new position made her part of his rhythm and she gave herself up to pure enjoyment again.

She was sorry when she sensed that it was about to end. As far as she was concerned, it could have gone on all night. But he had slowed and his inward pushes had deepened. He strained against her while she tightened her legs about his, pulling him deeper, and even contracted inner muscles that she had been unaware of until now.

And then she felt a hot flow deep inside and knew that his seed had been released into her womb. He sighed against the side of her face and she sighed with contentment at the same moment. She was now in every way his wife. It was a lovely feeling, far lovelier than she had imagined. It was possible, she thought, to be lovers without feeling any powerful or destructive passion for each other.

Just this warm—uniting. She felt one with him at that moment and thought how accurate were the words of the wedding service.
One flesh
.

She was sorry it was over until tomorrow night. She did not want him to go away. She did not want to be alone again, even though she was tired. He was warm
and relaxed and heavy on her. She wanted him to be asleep so that she could hold the comfort and the pleasure of her wedding day to her for a while longer.

But he was not sleeping deeply. After a mere couple of minutes he stirred.

“I am sorry,” he said, lifting himself away from her. “I must be squashing you.”

He did not immediately get out of bed. He lay on his side beside her. She turned to face him and smiled at him. She could see him quite clearly in the darkness. He slid his arm beneath her head again and smiled back.

“That was—”

“I did not know—”

They spoke together and stopped together. She waited for him to resume, snuggling close into his warmth again.

“I did not know it was possible to love so deeply,” he said, “or to be loved so tenderly.”

Love? Was he talking merely about the act they had just performed?

“I can still hardly believe it,” he said. His voice was sleepy. “That you love me. I fell in love with you as soon as I set eyes on you, of course. You looked so lovely and so peaceful and so much as if you belonged, gazing down at the abbey from the hill. And then so startled and so guilty when I spoke. But then you are naturally beautiful and desirable—I have not failed to notice how many men here admire you. I will never cease to be amazed and grateful that you came to love me of all men. I am so very ordinary.”

“You are not—”

But he laid a finger on her lips. “I am not fishing for compliments,” he said. “I followed you to London because life at Highmoor without you was too empty and too painful. I thought that perhaps if I just saw you once more and perhaps spoke with you once more I would find ease for the pain in my heart. When I saw the gladness in your face and when you asked me to kiss you and told me you loved me … No, I cannot tell you how I felt, my love. There are not words to describe the joy.”

Oh, dear Lord. Oh, dear Lord. No. Please, no. She would lose him. She was going to lose him. Feelings like that could not last. And feelings like that could not subside into affection or friendship. Only into hatred and pain. And despair.

He drew her closer until his lips almost touched hers.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I am not sure I have ever said those words aloud to you, have I? They are strangely difficult to say. What a precious gift they were when you said them to me. I love you. I love you.”

She gulped rather noisily and hid her face against his shoulder. “Hartley,” she said. “Oh, Hartley.” She was crying then, loudly and wetly, and could seem to do nothing about it. Everything was ruined. She had had no idea. If only she had. She could have prevented this from happening. But now it was too late. Why had she assumed that he felt as she did? He had never told her why he wanted to marry her. Only now did she realize that. And she had married him to escape from the terrors and insecurities of passion.

“Sweetheart.” He was holding her very tightly, but his voice was gentle. “Darling, I know. Sometimes the heart is so full that it spills itself in surprising ways. It has been an emotion-filled day for you. Did I hurt you when I loved you?”

“N—no,” she said. “It was good, Hartley. I enjoyed it.” They seemed inadequate words. But she did not want to use or feel anything more superlative. It
had
been good. She
had
enjoyed it.

She did not want him to love her. Not in the way he had just described. Romantic, delirious, passionate love. She remembered the feelings and the corresponding agony when they had let her down. If she had wanted passion again, she could have married Lionel and shared the feeling with him—for a while. Until it was over again.

“It will get even better,” he said. “I wanted you to become comfortable with what happens this first time, my love. I wanted you to find it pleasant. But there is more. There is so much more for you to experience. So much more I want to teach you—and be taught by you. It will work both ways, you know, even if you do not realize it now. And we have the rest of our lives ahead of us.”

Hartley
, she thought, her eyes closed against his shoulder,
don’t love me. I don’t want you to love me
.

“Just a moment,” he said as she sniffed rather wetly. “I have a handkerchief in the pocket of my dressing gown.” He left the bed and felt around in the darkness. He sat on the edge of the bed as she wiped her eyes and blew her nose in his handkerchief.

“Don’t leave me,” she said, suddenly fearful. Though she did not quite know if she was talking about now, this moment, or about some vague future time in their lives. She had felt so safe with him. Now she felt bewildered and rather frightened.

“Leave you?” He bent toward her and tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “I married you at least partly so that I might sleep with you, my love. And I use the word not just as a euphemism for making love, though that, too.” He smiled. “I want to sleep with you in my arms all night and every night. I want to feel married to you. But we are both very tired. I think we should sleep, don’t you? Together?”

“Yes, please,” she said. She lifted her head as he lay down again so that his arm could come beneath her. She curled in against him and breathed in the warm smell of him. She felt almost safe again.

“Hartley.” She could give him only one thing at the moment. “I did not cry because it was not good. I cried because it was very good. Because this whole day has been very good.”

“I know, love.” He lifted her chin and kissed her softly. “Do you think your body did not tell me your feelings? I know it was good. Sleep now.”

She was bone weary, she realized. She felt herself falling immediately toward sleep. She was in this marriage now, was one of her last thoughts. And she could not be as sorry as she should be. Perhaps she could make him so firmly her friend that he would never leave her or hurt her, even when the love he now felt had died.

H
E HAD NEVER BELIEVED
in happily-ever-afters. They were fine for stories intended for the delight of children. Children needed the security of a belief in lifelong happiness. He knew that in reality life for most people was a series of peaks and valleys, and that the best one could hope for was that there would be more peaks than valleys and that they would be higher than the valleys were deep.

Perhaps he still did not believe in happily-ever-afters. If he had stopped, really, to consider the matter, basic good sense would have forced him to admit that at some future time there would be troubles and problems and sadnesses in his life again. But he was so firmly on one of life’s highest pinnacles that it seemed to him for two whole days after his wedding that he would never have to suffer again.

And he would never let his wife suffer. For the rest of his days, he would devote himself to her happiness.

It was an immature assessment of the future, he realized later. But it was understandable. He was in love with a woman who loved him and they were newly married. What more could life offer, except endless years together and children of their bodies?

He believed—though he had never discussed the matter openly with anyone—that it was considered decorous to love one’s wife once a night and perhaps not even that often. What was a pleasure for men was said to be an unpleasant duty for women. If one needed a woman
more often than decorum allowed, then there were women enough who were only too glad to provide a service for a suitable fee.

He cared nothing for decorum. Allowing him his marital rights was no unpleasant duty to Samantha—he had known that from the very first time. And he had no wish for any other woman but his wife for the rest of their lives. It was not so much that he needed a woman more often than strict decorum allowed. It was that he wanted his wife constantly.

On their wedding night, tired as they both had been when they fell asleep, they woke together just before dawn, smiled sleepily at each other, and sank toward sleep again. But desire had kept him awake, and he had made love to her once more after she had assured him that she was not sore. He had made it long and almost languorous, all interior play with no foreplay. He had held back his release until he felt her relaxed pleasure.

They went walking in the park during the morning, when it was almost deserted, keeping to the quieter paths that gave the illusion of being in the country rather than in the middle of a city. There were even deer grazing among the trees, as there were at Highmoor. They held hands when it seemed they would be unobserved, and talked about their surroundings and about Highmoor. It was always so easy to talk with Samantha. He was fortunate, he thought, to have a friend as well as a lover in his wife. She glowed when she talked to him and smiled a great deal. She
liked
him as well as she loved
him, he thought, and derived amusement from the rather peculiar thought.

They drove out into the country in an open carriage during the afternoon, taking a direction that would be unlikely to bring them into company with others. They sat with clasped hands and talked very little as they gazed about at the wonders of nature. And that was another thing about Samantha, he thought. They could sit silently together for hours and still be comfortable. It seemed almost as if their minds worked along the same lines, though they rarely compared notes to be sure.

The
ton
would have been shocked at what he did when they arrived home at teatime. They did have tea, but then he took her to bed and loved her again. Of course it was not in bad taste, she assured him with a smile that was almost impish when he suggested it. She was his wife. She was his for the asking. And he certainly would not have to beg.

He loved her twice during that night. The next day followed much the pattern of the day before, except that it rained soon after luncheon and they spent the whole afternoon in bed, first loving, then sleeping, then talking about Highmoor and what they would do there during the summer. The day after tomorrow they would start their journey, he told her. He had intended starting back earlier, but he did not want to end this idyll with her too soon. Travel was tedious and inn beds not nearly as comfortable for love as this bed was.

He loved her three times during the night. He really
must allow her some rest in the coming day and the following night, he decided with a smile as he held her and watched dawn lighten the room while she slept. Not that making love was a great deal of exertion for her. She enjoyed physical love with him. He did not doubt that. But so far hers had been a largely passive role. She had lain quiet and receptive as he worked in her.

He could bring her to climax. He could arouse passion in her and build it to a crescendo and then coax her over the edge. He could teach her to be as active in their lovemaking as he was. He could teach her to make love to him and in the process intensify her own pleasure. And he would do it. He longed for it.

But not yet. She was not ready yet for passion. He would not have been able to put into words how he knew. It was something he sensed. Because he loved her. Because he knew her well despite the fact that they had been acquainted for a relatively short time. Because—Dorothea had once told him this—he had the rare skill of being able to read the messages of a woman’s body.

He knew that his wife was not yet ready for passion.

And so he waited patiently for her. It was no hardship. They loved dearly. And they both drew deep enjoyment from their sexual encounters.

For the three days and nights that started with his wedding day, the Marquess of Carew would have said that he was living happily ever after, even if a part of him would have known that there is no such thing in this life.

All of him knew it the next day.

T
HEY WERE TO LEAVE FOR HIGHMOOR THE NEXT day. Samantha could hardly wait. To go back there and know it was to be her home—the thought was still unreal. She would not believe it until she was there. And all of the summer would remain to wander about the park, to see perhaps the construction of the bridge over the lake—Hartley had said he would start with that. And there would be Jenny and Gabriel and the children to see again. She was to be their close neighbor. And Hartley had said they were his friends.