Chapter Fifteen
The words Oh, God, Geoffrey rang in his ears as he felt Diana’s muscles clench repeatedly around his cock, cuing his own release. He should have pulled out, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave the delicious warmth of her satin flesh, the place he wished to stay forever. So instead he poured his seed into her and prayed it didn’t take root.
“Sweetling . . . you . . . you . . . slay me,” he whispered as he felt his cock dying, shrinking, now that he’d come.
He had never understood why the French called an orgasm la petite mort, “the little death.” Until now. Having to leave her, to slip out of her and know that this might be the last time he was inside her was a kind of death.
Especially with Diana. She said she only wanted to experience pleasure with him. But what if she didn’t want only that? Did he dare risk her future by marrying her? Dragging her into the family scandal that still might come any day? She’d lived through scandal once. Why would she want to go through it again? Especially when it could lead to something far worse. That would spell death to their marriage.
She was still shaking in his arms, which only made him want to hold her closer. Then she lifted her lips to his ear and murmured, “I forgot my sponge. But to be fair, I didn’t know we would be doing this . . . so soon.”
“Marry me,” he answered, surprising himself. Hadn’t he just been thinking of why they couldn’t marry?
Then, realizing it was more a command than a question, he drew back and kissed her squarely on the lips before announcing, “We should marry.”
Her eyes went wide. Then she slid off the table and averted her gaze as she began to fix her clothes. “Why? Because we had an enjoyable time together?”
“Because . . .” Because I want you again and again. Because every day I look forward to when I’ll see you. Because you are the one bright thing getting me through the endless dark aftermath of Father’s death.
He said none of those things. They would be too telling. Instead, he pulled up his drawers and pantaloon trousers to cover himself, then picked up the bloodied cushion and handed it to her. “I took your innocence. That’s why.”
Flinching at the words, she handed the cushion back to him. “I told you before, our . . . swiving isn’t and never was about trapping you into marriage. It was about determining if I could find the physical part of marriage appealing. And I learned what I needed to know.”
Did he dare ask? “And what did you decide?”
“I don’t know if I should tell you,” she said archly, though she kept restoring her clothes, tying here, buttoning there. “Your head is already twice the size it should be.”
He laughed. “I come from a long line of bigheaded chaps.” He buttoned his drawers and then his trousers. “Just ask my mother.”
“I’d rather not. I wouldn’t be able to do so without blushing, I fear.” When he said nothing to that, she released a long breath. “Let’s just say I can now understand why sharing a bed with a man has its . . . attractions.”
“But?”
Her head jerked up. “What makes you think there’s a ‘but’?”
“Because you’re resisting my offer of marriage when any other woman would be begging me to wed her now that I’ve deflowered her.” He stared her down, daring her to answer him.
“If you’d been in my position for the past four years, don’t you think you’d prefer spinsterhood to marriage, too?”
“The past four—” He paused. “Oh. Right. Your parents.” And how could he have been such an arse as to forget that?
“I’ve seen what a bad marriage looks like. It’s not pretty, and it affects more than just the married couple—it affects the children, too.” She found her fichu and looped it around her neck before tying it much the same way a man might knot a cravat. “I’d like to think I would handle it better than my mother and certainly better than Papa, but who knows? Until I have my own children, there’s no way to be sure.”
“Speaking of children,” he said, “what if you find yourself—”
“I would marry you, yes. A child should never have to suffer. And let me say again that I’m very sorry I forgot my sponge.”
“Don’t be. I could have brought a French letter just as easily. I should have, just to be safe. But then I would have had to purchase one, because I have none with me in London.”
She cocked her head. “What good would a letter do, in French or any other language?”
He chuckled. She always had this odd mixture of innocence and worldly knowing about her. Perhaps that was what drew him to her. He never knew what to expect. “I’m speaking of a condom.”
“Oh! I’ve heard of those.” The expression of dawning awareness on her face was comical. “So that’s how they work. When the fallen females showed me one, all flat and limp, I couldn’t conceive of its being very effective, but I guess it wasn’t filled up.” To cover her sudden blush, she said, “And it’s called a French letter, too? Why?”
“Hell, I have no idea.” When she opened her mouth, he added, “Don’t you dare say, ‘Language, Geoffrey.’ My mother says that, and I won’t have a wife who does, too.”
“Then stop cursing,” she said primly. “And anyway, I haven’t agreed to be your wife, not that you were serious in your offer.”