The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

  Her only response was a heated moan, and with a stunningly quick motion, he lifted her skirt and jerked her up so that her hips were level against his. “Wrap your legs around me,” he commanded.

  She did. It was nearly his undoing.

  “Do you feel this?” he rasped, pressing his arousal hard against her.

  “Yes,” she said desperately.

  “Do you? Do you really?”

  He could feel her nodding against him, but he did not ease the pressure until she whispered once again, “Yes.”

  “Do not ever accuse me of not wanting you.”

  She pulled back. Not her hips; he was holding her far too tightly for that. But she pulled back her head, just far enough so that he was forced to look into her eyes.

  Blue. So pale but so blue. And so full of confusion.

  “You will find many things of which to accuse me,” he growled, “but this will never be one of them.”

  He tumbled them both to the bed, reveling in the soft gasp that flew from her lips as he came down onto her.

  “You are beautiful,” he whispered, tasting the salty skin below her ear.

  “You are exquisite,” he murmured, running his tongue down the arched length of her throat.

  His teeth found the scalloped edge of her bodice, and his hands made short work of it, yanking it down until he could see the surprisingly luscious shape of her breasts through the thin silk of her chemise. He cupped them, plumping her in his hands, and he shuddered with desire.

  “You are mine,” he told her, and he bent down to take one bud in his mouth.

  He kissed her through silk, and then when that wasn’t enough he kissed her skin, hot satisfaction rolling through him when he saw the cherry blush of her nipple.

  “You’re not pale here,” he said, his tongue dancing a naughty circle around the tip.

  She gasped his name, but he only chuckled. “You’re so pale,” he said huskily, trailing his hand up the length of her leg. “It was the first thing I noticed about you. Your hair . . .”

  He took one thick lock and tickled it across her breastbone.

  “Your eyes . . .”

  He leaned down, brushing his lips against her temple.

  “Your skin . . .”

  This last was said with a moan, because her skin, all milky white and smooth, was bared beneath him, in stark contrast to the luscious pink tip of her breast.

  “What color are you here, I wonder?” he murmured, trailing his fingers up the length of her thigh. She quivered beneath him, let out a gasp of pleasure as he ran one digit along the intimate crease where her leg met her hip.

  “What are you doing to me?” she whispered.

  He grinned wolfishly. “I’m making love to you.” Then, spurred by some devilish bit of humor, he leaned down until his lips were warm at her ear. “I should have thought it was obvious.”

  She let out a surprised chuckle, and he could not help but grin at her expression. “I can’t believe I just laughed,” she said, one hand covering her mouth.

  “And why not?” he drawled. “This is meant to be enjoyable.”

  Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

  “I’m enjoying myself.”

  Iris let out another astonished giggle.

  “Are you?” he murmured.

  She nodded.

  He pretended to consider this. “I’m not convinced.”

  Her brows rose. “You’re not?”

  He shook his head slowly. “You’re wearing far too many clothes to be truly enjoying yourself.”

  Her chin tucked in as she glanced down at herself. Her gown had been pushed down and pulled up in all the best ways, and she looked thoroughly decadent.

  He liked her this way, he realized. He did not want her on a pedestal. He wanted her rumpled and earthy, pinned beneath him and flushed with pleasure. He brought his lips back to her ear. “It gets better.”

  Her dress had already been undone; it required little work to divest her of the garment completely. “This has to go, too,” he said, grasping the hem of her chemise.

  “But you—”

  “Are completely dressed, I know,” he said with a low chuckle. “We’ll have to do something about that, too.” He sat up, still straddling her, and stripped off his coat and cravat. His eyes never left her face. He saw her tongue dart out to moisten her lips, and then he saw her catch her lower lip between her teeth, as if she was nervous about something, or maybe just trying to reach a decision.

  “Tell me what you want,” he commanded.

  Her eyes went from his torso to his face and then back again, and Richard sucked in his breath as her trembling fingers reached for the buttons on his waistcoat.

  “I want to see you,” she whispered.

  Every nerve in his body was screaming for him to rip off the last of his clothing, but he forced himself to remain still, unmoving except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He was mesmerized by her small hands, shaking as they fumbled with his buttons. It was taking her so long; she could barely force the disc through the buttonhole.

  “I’m sorry,” she said sheepishly. “I—”

  His hand covered hers. “Don’t apologize.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t . . .”

  She looked up.

  He tried to smile. “. . . apologize.”

  Together they managed the buttons, and Richard was soon pulling his shirt over his head.

  “You’re beautiful,” she whispered. “I’ve never seen a man before. Not like this.”

  “I should hope not,” he tried to joke, but then her fingers came to rest on his chest, and it felt as if his breath were being sucked from his body. “What you do to me,” he gasped, and he came back down to cover her, hoping she had not noticed that he had not removed his breeches.

  He could not. He’d stepped far too close to the fire as it was. Somewhere in the feverish recesses of his mind he knew that if he removed this last barrier, he would not survive it.

  He would take her. Make her his in truth.

  And that he could not do.

  Not yet.

  But nor could he leave her. She was temptation itself, lying beneath him, but that wasn’t what kept him rooted to the spot.

  He could not take what he so desperately desired, but he could give it to her.

  She deserved that.

  And something inside him said that maybe, just maybe, her pleasure would be almost as good as his own.

  He rolled to his side, pulling her with him as he captured her mouth in another burning kiss. Her hands were in his hair, then on his back, and as he kissed his way down her neck, he felt her pulse beating beneath her skin. She was so aroused, maybe even as much as he was. She might be a virgin, but by God he was going to give her pleasure.

  His hands dipped lower, gently parting her legs before resting over her mound. She stiffened, but he was patient, and after a moment of gently stroking she relaxed enough for him to dip into her folds.

  “Shhhh,” he crooned, bringing his face back to hers. “Let me do this for you.”

  She gave a jerky nod, even though he was fairly certain she had no idea what “this” was. It was humbling, the trust she’d placed in him, and he forced from his mind all the reasons he did not deserve it.

  He showered her face with gentle kisses as his fingers worked their magic at her core. She felt so good, all warm and wet and womanly. He was nearly to bursting, but he ignored it, kissing her deeply before whispering, “Does this feel good?”

  She nodded again, her eyes almost bewildered with desire.

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, and he made his way down her body, pausing at each breast before descending even farther.

  “Richard?” Her voice was panicky, barely more than breath.

  “Trust me,” he murmured, the words sinking into the soft skin of her belly.

  Her hands grasped the bedsheets beside her, but she did not halt his sensu
al progress.

  He kissed her then, right at the very heart of her, softly making love with his lips and tongue. His hands spread over her thighs, holding them in place, holding her open for his erotic invasion.

  She began to squirm beneath him, and he kissed her harder, sliding a finger inside and groaning with desire as he felt her muscles draw him in. He had to pause for a moment just to take a steadying breath. When he kissed her again, she strained against him, her hips coming off the bed with the force of her need.

  “I’m not letting you go,” he said, and he had no idea if she heard him. He pushed her legs farther apart, and he kissed and sucked and tickled until she cried out his name and shattered beneath him.

  And still he drank of her, holding himself to her until she came back down to earth.

  “Richard,” she gasped, her hand frantically batting against the bed. “Richard . . .”

  He slid himself up along her body, hovering above her so that he could gaze upon her passion-glazed face.

  “Why did you do that?” she whispered.

  He gave her a lazy smile. “Didn’t you like it?”

  “Yes, but . . .” She blinked rapidly, clearly at a loss for words.

  He settled beside her, kissing her ear. “Was it enjoyable?”

  Her chest rose and fell several times before she answered, “It was, but you—”

  “I found it very enjoyable,” he cut in. And he did, even if he was now frustrated as hell.

  “But you . . . you . . .” She touched the waist of his breeches. He did not know if her passion had left her beyond words or if she was simply too embarrassed to speak of their intimacies.

  “Shhhh.” He put a finger to her lips. He didn’t want to talk about it.

  He didn’t even want to think about it.

  He held her until she fell asleep. And then he slipped from the bed and staggered back to his own room.

  He could not fall asleep in her bed. He did not trust himself to awaken in her arms.

  Chapter Sixteen

  IRIS AWAKENED A bit before supper, just as she always did—slowly and with apathetic eyelids. She felt marvelously languorous, her limbs heavy with sleep and something more . . . something sensual and lovely. She found herself rubbing her feet against the sheets, wondering if they had ever felt so silky. The air was sweet, like fresh flowers and something else, something earthy and lush. She breathed in deeply, her lungs filling as she rolled onto her side and burrowed her face into her pillow. She did not think she had ever slept so well. She felt—

  Her eyes snapped open.

  Richard.

  She glanced about the room, her head twitching back and forth. Where was he?

  Clutching the sheet to her naked body, Iris sat up, turning her attention to the other side of the bed. What time was it? When had he left?

  She stared at the other pillow. What did she think she was going to see? An imprint of his face?

  What had they done? He had . . .

  She had . . .

  But he definitely hadn’t . . .

  She closed her eyes in agony. She didn’t know what was going on. She didn’t understand.

  He could not have consummated the union. He hadn’t even removed his breeches. She might be ignorant when it came to the marriage bed, but she knew that much.

  Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that it had been much too long since her last meal. Good heavens, she was hungry. What time was it? Had she missed supper?

  She glanced over at her window, trying to figure out how late it was. Someone had pulled the heavy velvet curtains shut. Probably Richard, she thought, since the corner was caught on itself. A housemaid would never leave them askew like that.

  It was dark out, but perhaps not yet pitch-black, and—oh, bother. She might as well just get up and look.

  With a bit of a grunt she yanked the sheet free so that she could wrap herself with it. She didn’t know why she felt this strange compulsion to know the time, but she certainly wasn’t going to get her answer staring at a tiny triangle of window peeping out from behind her disheveled curtains.

  Tripping over the edge of the sheet, she stumbled to the window and peered out. The moon shone brightly, not quite full, but round enough to lend the air a pearly glow. It was definitely well past dusk. How long had she been asleep?

  “I wasn’t even tired,” she muttered.

  She wrapped the sheet more tightly around her, grimacing when she realized how difficult she’d made it to walk. But she didn’t rewrap herself—that would have been far too sensible. Instead she hopped and jumped herself over to her mantel clock. She gave it a little turn so that it better faced the moonlit window. Almost half nine. So that meant she’d been asleep . . . what . . . three hours? Four?

  To know precisely would mean she knew how long she’d spent with Richard, doing . . .

  That.

  She shivered. She wasn’t the least bit cold, but she shivered.

  She needed to get dressed. She needed to get dressed, and get some food, and—

  The door opened.

  Iris shrieked.

  So did the housemaid in the doorway.

  But only one of them was wrapped like a mummy, and Iris’s lurch of surprise landed her in a heap on the floor.

  “Oh, my lady!” the housemaid cried. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” She rushed over, thrust her hand out, then pulled it back, clearly unsure of the proper behavior when faced with a nearly naked baronet’s wife on floor.

  Iris almost asked for help, then decided against it. Arranging herself with as much poise as she could manage, she looked up at the maid and tried to school her features into a coolly dignified expression.

  In her head, at that moment, she rather thought she resembled her mother.

  “Yes?” she intoned.

  “Ehrm . . .” The maid—who looked supremely uncomfortable, there really was no other way to describe it—bobbed an awkward curtsy. “Sir Richard was wondering if you wished to take supper in your room.”

  Iris gave a regal nod. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

  “Have you any preference?” the maid asked. “Cook made fish, but if that is not to your choosing, she can make something else. She told me to tell you that.”

  “Whatever Sir Richard has chosen,” Iris said. He would have eaten over an hour earlier; she did not wish to force the kitchen staff back to their ovens to cater to her whims.

  “Right away, then, my lady.” The maid curtsied again and practically ran from the room.

  Iris sighed, then started to laugh because really, what else could she do? She gave this five minutes before every soul in the house knew of her mortifying—and mortifyingly dressed—tumble. Except her husband, of course. No one would dare breathe a word of it to him.

  It was a very small shred of dignity, but she decided to cling to it.

  Ten minutes later she’d donned one of her new silk nightgowns and covered it with a less revealing robe. She braided her hair for bed; it was where she intended to go just as soon as she finished eating. She could not imagine she would sleep right away, not after the nap she’d just taken. But she could read. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d stayed up half the night with a book and a candle.

  She walked over to her side table to look through the stack of books she’d pulled from the library earlier that afternoon. She’d left Miss Truesdale and the Silent Gentleman down in the drawing room, but she’d lost her taste for Hungarian archers.

  And pathetic heroines who spent their time dithering and crying and wondering who might come to the rescue.

  She’d read ahead. She knew what was coming.

  No, she was not going to spend any more time with the piteous Miss Truesdale.

  Picking up the books one by one, she examined her options. Another Sarah Gorely novel, a bit of Shakespeare, and a history of Yorkshire.

  She took the history. She hoped it was boring.

  But no sooner had she settled on her bed than she heard
another knock at her door.

  “Enter!” she called out, eager for supper.

  The door that opened, however, was not the one that led to the hall. Instead it was the connecting door, the one that led to her husband’s bedchamber. And the person who entered was her husband.

  “Richard!” she squeaked, scrambling off the bed.

  “Good evening,” he said, his voice smooth as brandy. Not that she drank brandy, but everyone said it was smooth.

  Good God, she was nervous.

  “You’re dressed for supper,” she blurted out. Rather splendidly, too, in a bottle green superfine coat and pale yellow brocaded waistcoat. She now knew firsthand that his coats needed no padding. He’d told her once that he often helped his tenants in his fields. She believed him.

  “You’re not,” he said.

  She looked down at her tightly belted robe. It covered her up more than most ball gowns, but then again, most ball gowns could not be undone by a single tug of a sash.

  “I intended to eat in my room,” she said.

  “As do I.”

  She looked at the open doorway behind him.

  “Your room,” he clarified.

  She blinked. “My room?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “But you’ve already eaten.”

  One corner of his mouth tipped up. “Actually, I have not.”

  “But it’s half nine,” she stammered. “Why haven’t you eaten?”

  “I was waiting for you,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Oh.” She swallowed. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I wanted to.”

  She tightened her arms around her body, feeling strangely as if she had to protect herself, or cover herself, or something. She felt utterly out of her element. This man had seen her naked. Granted, he was her husband, but still, the things he’d done to her . . . and the way she’d reacted . . .

  Her face flushed crimson. She didn’t have to see it for herself to know just how deeply red she’d gone.

  He quirked a brow. “Thinking of me?”

  That was enough to strike her temper. “I think you should leave.”

  “But I’m hungry.”