Her big brown eyes widened as he faced her and unbuttoned his falls. “Oh, I don’t think—”
Tommy suddenly curled tight around her hand and mock-attacked her fingers.
Hippolyta shrieked.
The servants probably thought he was ravishing his new wife.
Matthew would’ve smiled had he not been encumbered with a near-painful erection. Carefully he shucked both breeches and smallclothes. Then he picked up the mongoose—holding the animal and his claws well away from his cock and bollocks—and looked Tommy in his vulpine little eyes. “Go and find somewhere else to sleep for the night.”
He gently tossed the mongoose to the floor before turning back to her. “Never underestimate a hunter intent on capturing his prey.”
Her soft throat moved as she swallowed. “And when the prey is captured?”
He set his knee on the bed. “Then he feasts.”
Chapter Nine
The queen led the king to the kitchens. There she procured a large white parsnip from the cook. This she took to the room where John would sleep that night. It was a simple room save for the enormous bed, which had very thick pillars at the corners. The queen knelt and placed the parsnip underneath the bed.
The king watched her. “Erm…what…?”
“You’ll see.” The queen gave her spouse an irritatingly superior smile.
He hated when she did that.…
—From The Prince and the Parsnip
* * *
Hippolyta stared at Matthew—her husband—poised nude on the edge of her bed like a leopard approaching his prey, and fought back sudden panic. This wasn’t how she’d envisioned her wedding night when she’d been a young girl. This wasn’t how she’d envisioned her marriage. She’d thought vaguely then that there would be wooing with flowers and whispered compliments. That she’d fall in love. That her husband-to-be would sink to one knee and propose in her father’s sitting room. That she’d be married in a grand cathedral with pomp and all of society gathered.
Rather than with a few friends and family hastily assembled at an unfashionable church.
This wasn’t what she’d dreamed of, but it was what she was left with. And the man?
He wasn’t anything she could’ve imagined back then.
Matthew was big.
From his broad shoulders to his thick muscled arms to that hairy thigh planted firmly on the bed.
And he was blatantly male.
Not the kind suitor of her imaginings. Not the sweet, blushing swain of her dreams.
His chest was hairy. An inverted triangle of curls between his dark nipples pointed to his navel. From his navel a line of dark hair led to his ruddy penis, already erect, already thrust rudely at her from a tangle of dark pubic hair.
He was too real, too raw.
She wanted to cringe away.
And at the same time, she wanted to look her fill.
She realized suddenly that she’d remained silent too long. Hippolyta blinked. Despite his aggressive words he was still poised on the edge of her bed, waiting…for her? She didn’t know what to say. She’d never done this before.
So she simply held out her hand.
Her fingers were trembling, but apparently it was the right thing to do. He leaned toward her, hot and overwhelming, a frown between his brows, and took her hand.
He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingertips. “Princess.”
His breath blew hot over her wet skin and she shivered.
He glanced up at that and crawled onto the bed. Deliberate. Slow. He planted one knee on either side of her, crouched above her, and she could smell him, his musk, his sex, as he leaned down and took her mouth. This kiss was different from the one in the inn yard. That one had been fast. Aggressive.
This was leisurely. As if he meant to learn her. Explore what made her a woman and him a man. She sank into the pillows, her heart beating fast, feeling his heat above her, his tongue in her mouth sliding against her own, the press of his hips, and the length of his cock against her thigh.
She wanted…
He angled his head, widening her mouth with his own. One hand slid down over her throat to her collarbone and the bodice of her wrapper.
He pulled back, looking at her with green eyes that seemed to burn. “Let me.”
She licked her lips and nodded.
He glanced down, a line incised between his brows as his big hands untied the ribbons that held the wrapper closed. He drew it open and sat back, helping her to rise and pull the garment off. Underneath she wore her chemise—a much more elegant garment than the ones she’d worn on their travels in Yorkshire. This one was linen with fine lace and embroidery. He didn’t seem to notice—or care—though, merely yanking it over her head. She thought she heard a rip and then she forgot all about her fine linen chemise.
Because he was looking at her.
She felt her middle heat, as if a fire had kindled there, as if his gaze alone had lit something within her. Instinctively she tried to close her legs, pushing her palms to the juncture of her thighs so he couldn’t see that part of her.
But he caught her wrists. “Don’t.”
She was panting, something like fear rising in her. Only it wasn’t quite fear.
He pulled her toward him and kissed her and she felt his chest against her nipples. The brush of his hair across her tender breasts. His bare arms encircling her back.
All that skin.
His thigh—muscled and hairy—pushing between hers, and then she was on her back again on the bed amid the pillows and he was over her. He was on her. His body rubbing against hers, and it was quite, quite lovely.
In a rather overwhelming way.
She inhaled, shuddering, as his lips left hers to travel down her throat, past her collarbone, to one breast. He licked over the upper slope and then opened his mouth over her nipple. She felt the sweet, strange pull as he suckled her, like nothing she’d ever experienced before in her life. She arched beneath him, even as he thumbed her other nipple. Was she supposed to feel so sharply, so deeply? How did people walk and talk so normally, take tea and act as if nothing were amiss, when they’d done this the night before?
She felt him urge apart her legs and she spread her thighs wider—and then wider still until he lay between them, his hips against hers.
He levered himself up and she opened her eyes as she felt his fingers there.
She stared into his green, green eyes. “What…?”
“Shhh.” He was touching her, opening her folds with his big fingers, and she could feel that she was wet.
Her lips trembled. “Matthew.”
His mouth turned sharply down. “Hush.”
She felt something else down there. Hotter. Bigger.
His fingers left and his cock pressed against her. Into her. Burning.
She’d known it might hurt, but she’d rather hoped it wouldn’t. She clutched at his arms and didn’t make a sound.
Not a sound.
He was big. Much, much too big.
He didn’t pause. He must know that he was hurting her, for she was still and tense, but he continued thrusting steadily into her with his great thick penis and she wasn’t at all sure this was going to work.
Or if she really wanted to do this ever again.
Then his pelvis met hers and he closed his eyes and whispered, “Jesus.”
She watched as a bead of sweat formed at his temple.
He didn’t move.
She ached between her legs where they were joined and she wondered when he would be done.
He opened his eyes, green and intent on her, and bent and kissed her. First on the forehead.
And then on the mouth.
He teased apart her lips. Slowly. Patiently. As if they were sitting together on a settee instead of lying intimately linked, his cock pulsing inside her. He licked the tender inner part of her lips, making her gasp, and then thrust inside, sliding and teasing until she broke and suckled his tongue.
>
His hands were on her breasts now, softly brushing her nipples.
She moved restlessly, pinned by his weight, by the cock still impaling her, by his mouth demanding her attention, her submission. Her hands unclenched from his arms. She threaded her fingers into his hair—his thick, lovely hair—and pulled the tie from his tail. It fell in waves around his face, brushing against her cheeks as she kissed him and he kissed her.
He closed his fingers on her nipples and she arched into him at the sudden pleasure-pain.
He moved then, pulling his cock slowly back, and for a second—a sad, lonely second—she thought they were done. But then he reversed the movement and thrust back in.
And again.
The ache was receding, disappearing under a wave of heat and longing. Of restless want rising up. She flexed her legs, curling her knees up, and yanked on his hair so that she could see his eyes.
He looked down at her with a predator’s stare, hungry and waiting as he continued to thrust into her, his big body pressing over and over into hers. He was all around her, surrounding her, overwhelming her, his scent in her nose and in her mouth.
She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but let herself go.
And be swept up in the wave that seemed to build and build until it crashed over her, destroying everything she’d thought she knew about herself and him.
She gasped and shook under him, dimly hearing his shout of triumph as he slammed into her a last time and slumped on her a dead weight.
She lazily stroked his slick back, thinking, no, this wasn’t at all what she’d once imagined marriage to be.
But it might be better.
Matthew woke to the scent of lilacs and a soft arse nestled against his morning erection.
His wife’s soft arse.
That was a new experience—and a new thought. This woman was his—to care for and to keep.
He opened his eyes and looked at her.
Hippolyta slept with her curtain of mahogany hair thrown half over her face and a palm cupped under her cheek like a little girl. Her lips were parted and stained that deep cinnabar. One nipple peeked from under the covers, innocent and lax. He bowed his head over her and licked that nipple, feeling it tighten under his tongue.
When he raised his head again, she was watching him with sleepy eyes.
“Good morning,” he said, brushing the hair from her face.
The color was high in her cheeks, but that might’ve been from sleeping.
Or not.
“Good morning,” she replied, her voice husky from sleep.
He hadn’t moved his hips away from hers. She must feel his cock still pressed against her soft flesh. But she’d been an innocent last night—and he’d hurt her. She’d be sore this morning.
He bent and kissed her lips. “Shall I have a maid bring up some tea and bread?”
Her eyes widened. “To eat here?”
He climbed from the bed and stood, glancing at her. “Yes.”
“But I can rise,” she said, and now he was sure. That was definitely a blush.
He arched an eyebrow. “We’re newly married. I believe we can lie abed for one morning, don’t you?”
“Oh, but…”
He strode to the door without bothering to dress, cracking it to find a footman waiting in the hall outside. He made the order and then stirred the fire before returning to the bed.
“This seems decadent,” his bride said, sounding disapproving.
Matthew was a bit disappointed to see that she’d donned her chemise and wrapper again.
“Yes, it is,” he replied.
There was a trill and then Tommy poked his head over the edge of the bed as he streamed up the side.
“Good morning to you, sir,” Hippolyta murmured softly to the little animal, and Matthew had to look away because he was not jealous of a mongoose.
Fortunately two maids arrived at that moment bearing trays with tea and breakfast. They set them on the tables beside the bed, opened the curtains, asked if there was anything else, and being given a negative reply, left.
Hippolyta poured the tea and passed both it and the pile of mail that had come with breakfast.
Matthew settled back against the pillows, idly rifling through the letters as he sipped the tea. He preferred the beer they’d had in the carriage. At least the tray held eggs and a gammon steak. He was taking a bite of one of the excellent buns when Hippolyta made a stifled exclamation.
He looked at her.
She was staring at an opened letter in her lap and her face had gone white.
His brows snapped together. “What is it?”
“I…” She glanced up at him and he saw devastation on her face.
He snatched the letter from her and read it.
It was simple and it was crude.
It was a blackmail letter. If Hippolyta didn’t hand over nearly her entire dowry money the letter writer would reveal to the world that her mother had been a native Indian.
The bun turned to ashes in his mouth.
Chapter Ten
So all in the palace went to sleep that night.
But in the morning what a change had come over John when he arrived at the breakfast table! He still had his proud bearing, but his noble features were haggard and dark circles stood under his handsome eyes. He smiled bravely, but Princess Peony gasped at the sight of him. “Whatever is the matter?” she cried.
And though John tried to put her off, at last he told her.…
—From The Prince and the Parsnip
* * *
She was a coward, pure and simple, Hippolyta thought two hours later as she stared morosely out the carriage window at the London street. She’d fled their marriage bed, refusing to discuss the blackmail letter with Matthew no matter how he’d roared and shouted, simply waiting in her dressing room until he’d given up and left the house. Then she’d bathed and dressed and made her own escape.
She’d told herself it was because she had appointments today, but she knew: she couldn’t look her husband in the eye. She’d married Matthew under false pretenses. He’d been all but forced into this marriage in the first place—and then to find that her pedigree wasn’t what an English aristocrat would want…
She blinked back tears. She loved her amma, but she knew what most Englishmen thought of native Indian people—the horrible names they called them. The bizarre belief that Indians weren’t actually as human as Englishmen. Papa had married Amma, but there had been Indian women kept as mistresses—and worse—in India by Englishmen.
Matthew had been to India. He had seen that, too. What must he think of her?
And then…and then for the only benefit to him of their marriage—her dowry—to be taken away by this blackmail? How could she weigh the two? The shame of her parentage versus the loss of the money he needed to rebuild the Paxton estates?
Hippolyta laid her head against the carriage cushions and took a shuddering breath. She’d thought this morning, after last night’s sweet lovemaking, that everything might—just might—work out between them. That they would manage to bumble along well—very well—together. Perhaps even find something deeper and more rare between them.
And then she’d opened that blasted letter and everything had fallen to pieces.
The carriage jerked to a stop.
She lifted her head to see that they were outside a fine town house. Oh. She was supposed to be calling upon Lady Whimple to discuss the ball her grandson, the viscount, was throwing in a fortnight. Lady Whimple lived with her grandson, and Matthew and Hippolyta were to be guests of honor—a way to smooth over the scandal of their hasty wedding.
The blackmailer had said in the letter that he—or she—wanted to be paid at the ball.
Was there a point in seeing Lady Whimple anymore? But since she was here regardless…
Five minutes later Hippolyta was shown into an elegant sitting room decorated in crimson and apple green.
Lady Wim
ple nodded to her from where she was comfortably ensconced on a gilt-edged settee. “I hope you don’t mind if I remain seated, my dear. Age before rank, I fear.”
“Of course not, ma’am,” Hippolyta said, crossing to the older woman and bending to kiss the soft, wrinkled cheek.
“Now here is the invitation list I’ve had my housekeeper draw up,” Lady Whimple said, proffering a sheet of paper. “Do look it over and tell me if there’s anyone you wish to add. Or strike out, come to that. I’m in favor of being quite ruthless with one’s enemies—or even potential enemies.”
Hippolyta tried to paste a cheerful expression on her face at the other lady’s banter, but apparently she failed.
Dismally.
Lady Whimple’s eyebrows snapped together. “Whatever is the matter, gel?”
Hippolyta felt her face crumple as she sank to the settee beside the older woman. “I…I don’t know what to do.”
“Indeed?” Lady Whimple eyed her a moment, then carefully rose and walked to a marble-topped side table and poured two glasses of dark-amber liquid from a decanter. She returned and handed one to Hippolyta. “My grandson’s French brandy. Drink it and tell me.”
So Hippolyta did.
By the time she’d finished both the story and her second glass of brandy, she clutched a bedraggled, wet handkerchief that Lady Whimple had supplied her with early in the narration, and her eyes were sore from crying, but she actually felt a bit better, not least because her limbs were feeling warm and relaxed from the brandy.
Lady Whimple, though, had a rather worrying thoughtful expression on her face.
“Well, the first thing you must do is go back and talk to that husband of yours,” the older woman said decisively from beside her on the settee. They had somehow ended up a little slumped together.
“Must I?” Hippolyta asked, eyeing her empty brandy glass sadly. The thought of facing Matthew again was quite awful.
“Yes,” Lady Whimple said. “Many husbands are quite useless or worse—downright dangerous. But Paxton seems a good man—a man who will stand by you and help you.”