“Ahhh. That’s . . .” He jerked against her. “Just hold still a moment.”
He raised himself up on straight arms, and to her disappointment, knocked aside her arms. And then he thrust. Once, twice, a third time, heavy and hard. He grit his teeth and made a sort of choked coughing sound and slumped over her.
Soon indeed.
She shifted to wrap her arms about him again so that she might at least lie with him afterward, but he rolled to the side and off her. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to crush you.”
He turned his back and presumably put himself to rights. Melisande pulled her chemise slowly down over her thighs, fighting a feeling of chagrin. The bed bounced as he rolled off it. He yawned and bent to pick up his banyan and shoes, then leaned over her to buss her cheek.
“Not too bad, I hope?” His blue eyes were worried-looking. “Get some sleep and I’ll make sure the footmen bring up a hot bath in the morning. That’ll help.”
“I’m—”
“Be sure to drink some more wine if you have any pain.” He ran a hand through his hair and nearly dislodged his tie. “Good night, then.”
And he left the room.
Melisande stared for a moment at the closed door, completely dumbfounded. The scratching came from her dressing room door again. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the sound. She slid her hand up under her chemise. She was wet down there, slippery with his semen and her own fluids. She ran her fingers between her folds, concentrating, thinking how he’d felt inside of her, how very blue his eyes were. She brushed that bit of flesh at the top of her cleft. It was swollen, throbbing with frustrated need. She stroked, trying to relax, trying to remember . . .
The scratching came again.
She huffed and opened her eyes, staring at the silk canopy of her bed. It was blue and had a slight hole in the corner. “Damn.”
The scratching was accompanied by a whine this time.
“Oh, have a little patience!”
She climbed from the big bed, annoyed, and felt semen slide down her inner thigh. A pitcher of water was on the dresser, and she poured a little out into the washbowl. Dipping a cloth into the cool water, she washed herself. Then she walked to the dressing room door and opened it.
Mouse sneezed indignantly and came bustling out. He jumped to the bed and turned around three times before settling on a pillow, his back pointedly toward her. He hated being locked away in the dressing room.
Melisande climbed back in the bed, feeling just as grumpy as theShegrumpy terrier. She lay for a moment staring at the silk canopy, wondering where, exactly, she’d gone wrong in that hasty exercise. She sighed and decided she could figure it all out in the morning. She snuffed the bedside candle and closed her eyes. As she drifted to sleep, she had one last coherent thought.
Thank goodness she hadn’t been a virgin.
TONIGHT’S WORK HADN’T been his most sterling moment as a lover, Jasper reflected just a few minutes later. He sat in his own rooms, in a large chair before his fire. He hadn’t shown Melisande true pleasure. The whole thing had been much too quick and hurried for that, he knew. He’d been fearful that if he’d drawn it out too much, he might forget himself and use her harder than he meant. So the experience hadn’t been exciting for her. But on the other hand, he fancied he hadn’t hurt her overmuch either. And that, after all, had been his main intention: not to frighten his virgin bride on her first night in his bed.
Or rather hers. He glanced at his own bed, huge, dark, and rather overwhelming. Just as well that he’d gone to her rooms instead of trying to bring her into his. His bed would frighten the most intrepid woman on her initiation into the pleasures of the flesh. Not to mention that afterward, he would’ve had to find a way to eject her from his rooms. He downed the last swallow of brandy in his glass. That would’ve been an awkward moment.
All in all, the act had gone as well as could be expected. Time enough later to show her how pleasurable the joining of a man’s and a woman’s bodies could be. Assuming, of course, that she wanted to linger in the connubial bed in the first place. Plenty of aristocratic ladies weren’t very interested in making love with their husbands.
ande watched the little maid in the vanity’s mirror. Suchlike’s delicate brows were drawn together. “Yes?”
“Oh, it’s nothing, ma’am,” she said, then immediately added, “Only that man, Mr. Pynch. There I was being quite polite as Mr. Oaks introduced everyone, and that man Mr. Pynch looked down his nose at me—and a very big nose it is, too, ma’am. I don’t think he should be so awfully proud of it. And he says, ‘Rather young for a lady’s maid, aren’t you?’ in this terribly stuffy voice. And what I want to know is, what business is it of his anyway?’”
Melisande blinked. She’d never seen Suchlike take offense at anyone or anything before. “Who is this Mr. Pynch?”
“He’s his lordship’s man,” Suchlike said. She picked up the brush and ran it through Melisande’s hair with vigorous strokes. “A big oaf of a man, no hair at all on top. Cook said he served with Lord Vale in the Colonies.”
“Then he’s been with Lord Vale for many years.”
Suchlike braided her hair with quick, sure movements. “Well, I think he’s gotten full of himself. A less likable, stuck-up, nasty man I’ve rarely met.”
Melisande smiled, but then the smile faded and she looked up at a sound, her breath quickening.
The door connecting her rooms to the viscount’s opened. Lord Vale stood in the doorway dressed in a scarlet banyan over breeches and a shirt. “Ah. I’ve arrived too early. Come back, shall I?”
“There’s no need, my lord.” Melisande struggled to keep her voice from quavering. She was having trouble not staring at him. His shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, and that small bit of intimate skin was having a devastating effect on her. “That will be all, Suchlike.”