Talk Sweetly to Me (15 page)

“Four months! No, never mind that for now. Rose, did you just lie to me about
mathematics
to get me into bed?” He laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so flattered.” He took her hand. His fingers were warm against hers, and her whole body thrilled at his touch. “Come, Rose.”

She followed him up the stairs.

His bed was solid wood, heaped with a quilt of shifting greens. He stopped on the threshold of his room. “Are you sure, Rose?”

Her heart was pounding. “I’m sure.”

She wasn’t sure what to expect. But he didn’t pounce on her immediately. He didn’t take off her clothing. Instead, he turned her to him, set his finger under her chin, and he kissed her.

It was a sweet, intense sort of kiss—soothing in it’s own way. And yet his hand crept around her. His fingers touched the back of her neck. Her skin felt sensitive all over.

“Hullo, there, Rose,” he murmured against her lips.

She smiled and tilted her head back. “Stephen. I love you.”

“Ah, good.”

His touch was gentle and yet so firm, caressing the base of her neck. She didn’t even realize that he was undoing her buttons down her back until she felt the cool air against her skin. But he didn’t stop kissing her, and gradually she felt her whole body coming to life.

He lifted his head for one second—just long enough to slide her gown off her shoulders. She felt the fabric pool at her feet. And then he stepped close to her once more. But instead of kissing her mouth, he bent his head to kiss her shoulder. His fingers tangled in the corset laces she’d tied in front, deftly undoing them, loosening them…and then pulling away the boning and heavy fabric.

When he took her nipple in his mouth through her shift, she tilted her head back. Her breath came shorter and shorter. And yet…

She opened her eyes. He was intent on her, his hands gentle on her skin. But she hadn’t wanted to simply give herself to him. She’d wanted to be brave and maybe a little outrageous. And so slowly, she reached out and put her hands on the placket of his trousers. His eyes shut; she could feel the hard length of his erection through the fabric.

“God, Rose.”

This
was what she needed to do—not just to give herself to him, but to take him in return. Her hands were not so practiced as his had been on her buttons, but he didn’t seem to care. He pressed his hips against her hand, urged her as she peeled back his trousers. His smallclothes came next, revealing a long, pale shaft, already swelling under her attentions. She ran a finger over the tip; he gave a little growl.

And then she looked up at him.

“There we are,” Rose said, feeling her lips curl into a smile. “Stephen Shaughnessy, Actual Man.”

He let out a laugh—but before he could say anything else, before she could lose her nerve—she took him entirely in her hand, caressing him from tip to stem. It was the most amazing thing, the male organ—responsive, moving ever so slightly with her every touch. His breath grew uneven; his shaft pulsed in her hands, growing harder and longer.

“Rose.” He set his hand on her shoulder. “Let me have a turn at you, love.”

She looked up at him. And then, ever so gently, he pushed her down to the bed. Her heart was beating wildly; she couldn’t quite believe she was about to do this.

But then he came over her. He let his weight settle into her, slowly, ever so slowly, until their hips fit together, until her breasts brushed his chest through her last under layer. He kissed her first on the shoulder, then on the chin, and then, tilting her head up, on the lips. That kiss on the lips didn’t stop. She let herself sink into it as his body settled against hers. They were hip to hip, separated only by the sheer fabric of her chemise. It was both too much and not enough. Their bodies found a rhythm together, a push and pull like heartbeats, like the tide of gravity between them.

He pulled away from her—only long enough to sweep her chemise up her body, to bare her to the cool air. He took off his shirt, revealing wiry muscles. And then he looked in her eyes. “Four months,” he said with a shake of his head. “Truly, we’re going to have a four month engagement?”

“It will have to be long enough to forestall all gossip.”

“Four months.” He made a noise, but he was smiling at her. “Then I’ll fetch a French letter and we’ll be very careful.”

She wasn’t sure what to say to that.

He turned from her momentarily, and found something in his dresser. He fitted this to his erection, and then turned to her. “Now it’s my turn to prepare you.”

He advanced on her. But instead of getting atop her once more, he spread her legs and then very slowly, slid his fingers between them.

“God,” he said, “you’re beautiful. Beautiful and wet for me. And I can’t wait to taste you.”

And then he did. He set his mouth to her, and she felt the sure sweep of his tongue. It was the most shockingly intimate thing she’d ever experienced—entirely beyond her imagination—to have him doing this, tasting her, finding that nub there. He slid a finger inside her. Her breath caught. Between his hand and his tongue, she couldn’t think, could only experience a sweet pleasure, growing. Her body felt restless. She pushed against him, wanting…

He pulled back ever so slightly. And then, while her body was still desperate for more, he kissed his way up her hips, her navel. His mouth left a warm imprint against her belly, rising up her body rib by rib until he found the rounding edge of her breast.

He took her nipple in his mouth again just as he began to move his finger inside her. Those two points—so deliciously, utterly warm—drove her into a frenzy. She was close to something, so close, and if only he would…

But he didn’t. He took his hand away. She almost protested, but he came over her again. This time, he set his erection to her cleft.

“Rose, darling.”

She looked up at him.

“I love you,” he said.

He slid into her. She’d expected it to be painful and rough, but by the time he entered her, she was already wet and ready for him. There was a pinch—she caught her breath—he stopped…

And she could feel the tip of him inside her, warm and hard, could feel him on top of her, his muscles cording as he held himself back. She reached up tentatively and set her hand on his chest. Very slowly, she drew her fingers down his chest. He made a noise in his throat; his hips flexed, and he slid inside her another inch, and then another, moving slowly until he had filled her completely. Their bodies were joined intimately. She looked up at him…

He smiled, reached down, and brushed her cheek.

“Well,” he said. “I had better make sure that you like this. Because four months from now, I’m having you again and again and again.”

He moved his hips, pulling out of her and then sliding back—over and over, until that rhythm they’d found before swept them both up. Until her skin seemed to catch fire, and his hands came to her hips. She felt herself come apart around him; he gritted his teeth and then, just as she thought she could take no more, gasped and pounded into her one last time.

They drifted afterward. They’d scarcely slept the night before, and she could not keep her eyes open. She fell asleep to the feel of his fingers against her temples, and the soft murmur of his voice.

“Damn,” he said. “Four months.”

“F
OUR MONTHS
.”

It was six that evening, and Rose’s parents—who had journeyed hours through ice and snow to see their first grandchild—sat at the dinner table, frowning at Stephen Shaughnessy.

“Four months,” her father repeated. “Is there any reason the engagement must be so short?”

They had already interrogated Stephen on his finances and his family. Her father had muttered when he’d said he was Irish, and frowned when he mentioned that he did some work for a newspaper. Rose had thumped her father, urging him to behave…and when Stephen gave a cheeky answer, had done the same to him. But Stephen had actually comported himself in an almost respectable manner.

If someone didn’t say something soon, her parents would have the surprise of their lives when they discovered the things she hadn’t told them. She really was going to have to show them one of his columns. If her father discovered it on his own…

“In fact,” Stephen said, “I should like the engagement to be shorter.”

Right. An excellent way to introduce the topic of his reputation to her parents. Rose managed to hide her wince.

Her father stiffened, glaring at Stephen. But her fiancé—oh, how lovely that word was—simply leaned casually back in his chair, as if he’d not announced to the entire room—to both her parents, watching in wide-eyed shock—that he wanted to take her to bed, and soon.

Which, really, her parents ought to have guessed that from the circumstance of his wanting to marry her, but then parents could sometimes be willfully blind about such things.

“You see,” Stephen said piously, “my understanding is that Doctor Wells is expected home any day now. Once he’s back, there will be no need for Rose to stay here. And once her sister has recovered herself from the birth… Well, I think Doctor and Mrs. Wells might enjoy having some privacy.”

“She’ll come home to us in London,” her father growled. “Of course she will.”

“But then how will she work with Dr. Barnstable?” Stephen asked. He reached out and took her hand under the table. “She enjoys her work with him so, and I would hate to see my Rose deprived of something she liked simply because I was loathe to commit to marriage on a reasonable timeline.”

Oh, that was clever.

Her father huffed. “Oh, you’re good.” He glanced suspiciously at his son-in-law-to-be. “A little too good.”

“Oh, no,” Stephen said angelically. “I’m afraid not. You’ll likely hear about it all too soon. It’s the only reason I’m agreeing to four months at all—because if I had insisted on three weeks, the gossip would be too fierce.”

Rose’s father sighed, but before he could say anything more, the front door opened.

Rose heard stomping feet, a dull thud—and then a man stepped into the back room. His dark skin was more weathered than when last she’d seen him. His hair was cut close to the scalp; a light brush of gray at his temples made him seem all the more austere. He wore a scarlet band on his arm over his uniform.

“Rosie?” He blinked, looking around the room in confusion. “What is going on? Where’s Patricia?”

Rose let go of Stephen’s hand and sprang to her feet, uttering a little cry of joy. “Isaac! You’re back. Oh, you’re back. Patricia had the baby—”

“What?”

“And she’s well—and he is well—you must come see them now.”

“Wait,” her father was saying. “We’re not done here. I haven’t agreed yet.”

“Papa,” Rose said, “don’t let him fool you. He’s a rogue and an outrage.” She winked at her father. “And once you know him, you’ll like him very well. I promise.”

Stephen met her gaze, and then, ever so slowly, he smiled. “Ah,” he said with a shake of his head. “I love it when you talk sweetly to me.”

Epilogue

December, 1882

Dear Man,

I do not wish to know what the average man wants in a woman; I wish to know what
you
want in a woman. Tell me, how is a woman like me ever to attract you?

—Blushing in Bedford

Dear Blushing,

Over the years of my writing this column, I have received literally thousands of letters asking this question. Until now, I have never answered.

I don’t ask for much in a woman. I like mathematics, astronomy, and women who can multiply nine-digit numbers in their heads. The difficult part was convincing her to like me back.

You had all better wish her luck. I think she’ll need it.

Sincerely hers,

Stephen Shaughnessy

Committed Man

Thank you!

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Talk Sweetly to Me
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