The Girl With the Make-Believe Husband

  “I’m making love to you,” he said.

  Her eyes opened. “But—”

  He brought a finger to her lips. “Don’t interrupt me.” She was a clever girl; she obviously knew what happened between a man and a woman, and she knew that something much larger than his fingers was meant to find its way inside of her. But clearly no one had told her about all the delicious things that could happen along the way.

  “Have you heard of la petite mort?” he asked her.

  Her eyes clouded with confusion as she shook her head. “The little death?”

  “It’s what the French call it. A metaphor, I assure you. I have always thought it more an affirmation of life.” He leaned down and drew her nipple into his mouth. “Or perhaps a reason for living.”

  And then, with all the wicked promise he felt in his soul, he looked up at her through his lashes and murmured, “Shall I show you?”

  Chapter 14

  I miss the days when you were in London and we could write back and forth like a conversation. I suppose we are now at the mercy of the tides. Our letters must cross each other on the ocean. Mrs. Pentwhistle said she thought it was a charming thought, that they had little hands and were waving at each other across the water. I think Mrs. Pentwhistle drank too much of Reverend Pentwhistle’s Communion wine.

  Please tell Captain Rokesby that the little purple flower he pressed arrived in perfect condition. Isn’t it remarkable that such a little sprig is strong enough to journey from Massachusetts to Derbyshire? I am sure I will never have the opportunity to thank him in person for it. Please do assure him that I will treasure it always. It is so very special to have a small piece of your world.

  —from Cecilia Harcourt to her brother Thomas

  The little death.

  Surely the French had been onto something when they came up with that phrase. Because the tightness that was coiling in Cecilia’s body . . . the pulsing, inexorable need for something she did not even understand . . . It all felt like it was leading toward something she could not possibly survive.

  “Edward,” she gasped. “I can’t . . .”

  “You can,” he assured her, but it was not his words that sank into her, it was his voice, pressed up against her skin as his wicked lips made lazy discovery of her breasts.

  He had touched her—kissed her—in places she herself had not dared to explore. She was bewitched. No, she was awakened. She’d lived twenty-two years in this body and was only just now learning its purpose.

  “Relax,” Edward whispered.

  Was he mad? There was nothing relaxing about this, nothing that made her want to relax. She wanted to grab and claw and yes, scream as she fought her way to the edge.

  Except she did not know what that edge was, or what might be on the other side.

  “Please,” she begged, and it didn’t even seem to matter that she had no idea what she was begging for. Because he did. Dear God, she hoped he did. If he didn’t, she was going to kill him.

  With his mouth and his fingers, he brought her to the peak of desire. And then, when her hips rose up, silently begging him for more, he dipped one finger inside of her and flicked his tongue across her breast.

  She came apart.

  She cried his name as her hips lifted from the bed. Every muscle clenched in unison. It was like a symphony made of only one taut note. Then, after her body had grown tight as a board, she finally drew breath and collapsed onto the mattress.

  Edward withdrew his finger and lay on his side next to her, propped up on his elbow. When she found the energy to open her eyes, she saw that he was smiling like a cat in cream.

  “What was that?” she said, her words more breath than voice.

  He brushed a damp tendril of hair from her forehead, then leaned forward to kiss her brow. “La petite mort,” he murmured.

  “Oh.” There was a world of wonder in that single syllable. “That’s what I thought.”

  This seemed to amuse him, but in that lovely way that made Cecilia flush with pleasure. She was making him smile. She was making him happy. Surely when she reached her final reckoning that would count for something.

  But they had not yet consummated the marriage.

  She closed her eyes. She had to stop thinking that way. There was no marriage. This was not a consummation, it was—

  “What’s wrong?”

  She looked up. Edward was staring down at her, his eyes so bright and blue, even in the fading light of evening.

  “Cecilia?” He did not sound concerned, exactly, but he knew something had changed.

  “I’m just . . .” She fought for something to say, something she could say that would actually be true. And so she said, “. . . overwhelmed.”

  He smiled, just a little, but it was enough to change the shape of her heart forever. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  She nodded as best as she could. It was a good thing, at least right now. As for next week, or next month, when her life would surely fall apart . . .

  She would deal with that when she had to.

  His knuckles brushed her cheek in a tender caress, and still, he stared down at her like he could read her soul. “What are you thinking, I wonder.”

  What was she thinking? That she wanted him. That she loved him. That even though she knew this was wrong, it felt like they were married, and she just wanted it to be real, if only for this one night.

  “Kiss me,” she said, because she needed to take control of the moment. She needed to be in this moment, not floating off into the future, into a world where Edward’s smile was no longer hers.

  “A little bossy all of a sudden,” he teased.

  But she was having none of it. “Kiss me,” she said again, wrapping one of her hands behind his head. “Now.”

  She pulled him down, and when their lips met, her hunger exploded. She kissed him like he was her very air, her food and water. She kissed him with everything she felt inside, everything she could never tell him. It was a declaration and an apology; it was a woman clutching at bliss while she had the chance.

  And he returned it all with equal passion.

  She would never know what came over her, how her hands seemed to know what to do, pulling him close, reaching for the fastening of the breeches he still had not taken off.

  She let out a cry of frustration when he pulled away from her, hopping from the bed to tear off the offending garment. But she did not take her eyes off him, and God above, he was beautiful. Beautiful and very, very large, enough to make her eyes widen with apprehension.

  He must have seen her expression because he chuckled, and when he got back on the bed, his expression was somewhere between roguish and feral. “It’ll fit,” he said, his voice husky against her ear.

  His hand slid down her body to the cleft between her legs, and it was only then that she realized how very hot and wet she’d gotten. Hot and wet and needy. Had he pleasured her on purpose? To make her ready for him?

  If so, it had worked, because she felt an overwhelming hunger for him, a need to take him within her, to join her body to his and never let go.

  She felt him press up against her, just the very tip of him, and her breath caught.

  “I’ll be gentle,” he promised.

  “I’m not sure I want you to be.”

  A shudder ran through his body, and when she looked up, his jaw was tightly clenched as he fought for control. “Don’t say things like that,” he managed to get out.

  She arched against him, trying to somehow get even closer. “But it’s true.”

  He moved forward, and she felt herself opening to him.

  “Am I hurting you?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, “but it feels very . . . strange.”

  “Strange good or strange bad?”

  She blinked a few times, trying to make sense of what she was feeling. “Just strange.”

  “I’m not so sure I like that answer,” he murmured. His hands reached behind her, pulling her open wider,
and she gasped as another inch of his manhood pressed forward. “I don’t want this to be strange.” His lips found her ear. “I think we’re going to need to do this very often.”

  He sounded different, almost untamed, and something very feminine inside of her began to sparkle. She had made him this way. This man—this big, powerful man—was losing control, and it was all for a need of her.

  She had never felt so strong.

  The sensations weren’t like the ones from before, though. When he had been using just his hands and his lips, he had whipped her into a storm of desire and then sent her soaring with pleasure. But now it was more that she had to get used to him, accommodate his size. It didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t as lovely as before. At least not for her.

  But for Edward . . . Everything she had been feeling before, every last clench of need she saw on his face. He was loving this. And that was enough for her.

  But not, apparently, for him, because he frowned and stopped moving.

  She looked up at him with questioning eyes.

  “This will not do,” he said, dropping a kiss on her nose.

  “Am I not pleasing you?” She’d thought she was, but maybe not.

  “If you pleased me any more I might perish,” he said with a wry expression. “That’s not the problem. I am not pleasing you.”

  “You did. You know you did.” She blushed when she said this, but she could not bear for him to think she was not enjoying herself.

  “You do not think you can be pleasured twice?”

  Cecilia felt her eyes grow very wide.

  Edward’s hand slipped between their bodies and found the most sensitive spot of her womanhood.

  “Oh!” She’d felt him moving there, but still, the sensation was so intense she could not help but let out a cry of surprise.

  “That’s more like it,” he murmured.

  And then it all began to build again. The pressure, the need . . . it was so great she did not notice how he was stretching her with each stroke. Every time she thought there could not possibly be more of him, he pulled back and then plunged forward, reaching even further into her soul.

  She had not known she could be so close to another human being. She had not known she could be so close and want even more.

  She arched her back, her hands clutching at his shoulders as his body finally came fully flush against hers.

  “My God,” he breathed, “it’s like I’ve come home.” He looked down at her, and she thought she saw the slightest sheen of moisture in his eyes before his mouth captured hers in a torrid, passionate kiss.

  And then he began to move.

  It began as slow, steady strokes, creating an exquisite friction inside of her. But then his breath jerked into gasps, and whatever rhythm he’d begun sped into a frenzy. She felt it growing within her too, that race toward the precipice, but she was nowhere as lost as Edward was, at least not before he adjusted his position and sucked one of her nipples into his mouth.

  She cried out at the shock of it, at the impossible connection between her breast and her womb. But she felt it there . . . dear God above, when his fingers began to tease the other nipple, she felt it between her legs and she began to quiver and clench.

  “Yes!” Edward growled. “My God, yes, squeeze me.” He grabbed her breast, harder than she’d have ever thought she’d like, but she loved it, and with a sudden piercing jolt she came apart again.

  “Oh God,” Edward was grunting. “Oh God oh God oh God.” His movements grew almost crazed, and he was pounding forward, and then he seemed to go almost still, caught in one last thrust before moaning her name and collapsing atop her.

  “Cecilia,” he said again, his voice barely a whisper. “Cecilia.”

  “I’m right here.” She stroked his back, her fingertips making lazy circles across the indentation of his spine.

  “Cecilia.” And then again. “Cecilia.”

  She liked that he couldn’t seem to say anything besides her name. Heaven knew, she wasn’t thinking much beyond his.

  “I’m crushing you,” he mumbled.

  He was, but she didn’t mind. She liked the weight of him.

  He rolled off her, but not all the way, leaving himself draped partly over her. “I never want to stop touching you,” he said. He sounded incredibly drowsy.

  She turned to look at him. His eyes were closed, and if he had not fallen asleep, he would very soon. Already his breath had begun to even out, and his eyelashes—so thick and dark—lay lazily against his cheeks.

  She’d never watched him fall asleep, she realized. She had shared a bed with him for a week, but every night she’d crawled into her side and carefully turned her back. She would listen to his breathing, practically holding her own breath in an effort to keep still and quiet. And she told herself that she would listen, and then she would know when he fell asleep, but every time she somehow drifted off before that happened.

  He was always up before her in the mornings, already dressed or mostly so, when she opened her eyes and yawned her way into the day.

  So this was a treat. He was not a restless sleeper, but his mouth moved a little, almost as if he were whispering a prayer. She yearned to reach out and touch his cheek, but she didn’t want to wake him. His recent display of strength and stamina notwithstanding, he was not fully restored to health and he needed his rest.

  So she watched him and she waited. Waited for the guilt she knew would eventually wrap itself around her heart. She wanted to lie to herself and say that he had seduced her beyond reason, but she knew that was not true. Yes, she had been swept away by passion, but she could have stopped him at any point. All she had to do was open her mouth and confess her sins.

  With her fist to her mouth, she stifled a grim laugh. If she’d told Edward the truth he would have been off her like a shot. He would have been furious, and then he would have probably hauled her off to a priest and married her on the spot. That was just the sort of man he was.

  But she couldn’t let him do that. He was practically engaged to that girl back home, the one he’d told her about—Billie Bridgerton. She knew he was very fond of her. He always smiled when he talked about her. Always. What if they really were engaged? What if he’d promised himself to her and had forgotten about it along with everything else in the last few months?

  What if he loved her? He could have forgotten about that, too.

  But even with all the guilt now coursing through her veins, she couldn’t bring herself to regret this. Someday all she would have left of this man would be memories, and she was damned if she did not make those memories as brilliant as she could.

  And if there was a child . . .

  Her hand went to her womb, where even now his seed could be taking root. If there was a child . . .

  No. That was unlikely. Her friend Eliza had been married a full year before she got pregnant. And the vicar’s wife even longer. Still, Cecilia knew enough to know that she could not continue to tempt fate. Maybe she could tell Edward that she feared getting pregnant so far from home. It would be no lie to say that she did not relish the idea of an ocean journey while she was with child.

  Or with a child. Good Lord, the journey had been awful enough on her own. She had not been seasick, but it had been dull, and at times frightening. To do that with an infant?

  She shuddered. It would be hell.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She twisted at the sound of Edward’s voice. “I thought you were asleep.”

  “I was.” He yawned. “Or almost.” One of his legs was still pinning her down, so he moved it, then drew her up against him, her back to his front. “You were upset,” he said.

  “Don’t be silly.”

  He kissed the back of her head. “Something was bothering you. I could tell.”

  “While you were asleep?”

  “Almost asleep,” he reminded her. “Are you sore?”

  “I don’t know,” she said quite honestly.

  “I should get you a
cloth.” He let go of her and slid from the bed. Cecilia twisted her neck so that she could watch him as he crossed the room to the basin of water. How could he be so unselfconscious in his nakedness? Was it a male thing?

  “Here we are,” he said, returning to her side. He’d dampened the cloth, and with tender motions he cleaned her.

  It was too much. She almost cried.

  When he was done, he set the cloth aside and resumed his position next to her, propping himself up on one elbow as he used his free hand to fiddle with her hair. “Tell me what is bothering you,” he murmured.

  She swallowed, summoning her courage. “I don’t want to become pregnant,” she said.

  He went still, and Cecilia was glad for the dim light in the room. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see whatever emotion had flashed through his eyes.

  “It might be too late for that,” he said.

  “I know. I just—”

  “You don’t want to be a mother?”

  “No!” she exclaimed, surprising herself with the force of her reply. Because she did. The thought of bearing his child . . . It nearly made her weep with the want of it. “I don’t want to become pregnant here,” she said, “in North America. I know there are doctors and midwives, but eventually I want to go home. And I don’t want to make that crossing with a baby.”

  “No,” he said, his brow pulling into a thoughtful frown. “Of course not.”

  “I don’t want to do it while I’m pregnant either,” she said. “What if something should happen?”

  “Things happen everywhere, Cecilia.”

  “I know. But I just think I would feel more comfortable at home. In England.”

  None of this was a lie. It just wasn’t the whole truth.

  He continued to stroke her hair, the motion soft and soothing. “You look so distraught,” he murmured.

  She didn’t know what to say.

  “You needn’t be so upset,” he told her. “As I said, it might be too late, but there are precautions we can take.”

  “There are?” Her heart made a delighted skip before she remembered that she had far greater problems than this.