Counting on a Countess Page 8

  Once you climb in me, it promised, there’s no going back.

  “Is there anything you require?” Mr. Chapman was all solicitousness. “I can have refreshments brought up.”

  “We have everything we need.” Kit hastily handed him a guinea.

  “My gratitude, sir,” the night manager said with a bow. “I’ll just see myself out.”

  Tamsyn’s heartbeat was thick in her throat when the door closed, leaving her alone with her new husband. She tore her gaze away from the bed to find him watching her with a careful, curious expression, as though she were a doe who had wandered into a ballroom.

  “My valet and your maid should be here by now,” he said neutrally. “Shall I send her to you?”

  To help her undress.

  “Yes, please.” She tried to discreetly wipe her damp palms on her skirts. Damn these nerves! She had no reason to be afraid. Pain was merely pain—it came and it went. She could manage that kind of hurt.

  A wound to her heart, however, was more difficult to heal.

  After giving her a warm, encouraging smile, Kit left quietly.

  She walked to the fire and watched the dancing flames, as if their shifting light could somehow ease her mind and calm her body.

  A soft tap sounded on the door, and Nessa let herself into the room. Seeing her cheerful, familiar face in this decidedly unfamiliar place was a balm, and Tamsyn walked quickly over to lay her head on Nessa’s shoulder.

  “Ah, child,” Nessa said, patting her back. “Here I am. Naught to worry about.”

  “I’m not worried,” Tamsyn replied automatically.

  “’Course you aren’t,” Nessa said in a soothing voice. “You’re a brave lass. Come on, then,” Nessa said, stepping back. “Can’t have you climbing into bed wearing all your clothes.”

  Tamsyn nodded. With brisk, businesslike movements, Nessa began divesting her of her gown.

  “He’s a handsome one, so it won’t be a chore,” Nessa noted in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “He pleases my eye,” Tamsyn agreed. “That much is certain.”

  Nessa’s fingers stilled on the fastenings running down the back of Tamsyn’s dress. “How much do you know?” she asked. “About what goes on between a man and a woman?”

  “I understand the process.” Tamsyn couldn’t stop the heat that washed through her. “What goes into what and so forth.”

  “That’s good.” Nessa’s fingers, well trained in the fixing of fishing nets, made short work of the gown’s fastenings. Once the silver dress had been removed, Nessa put it in the clothespress. “I was afraid I’d have to draw you pictures, and I’ve no skill with a pencil.”

  “It’s one thing to understand how bodies fit together,” Tamsyn admitted. Blast, but she hated this nervousness. It wasn’t like her at all. “Another thing entirely to know what sex is truly like. What if I do something wrong? It’s supposed to hurt the first time.” It seemed like it had to, given what she’d seen of male parts. Like other girls of Newcombe, she’d spied on boys bathing in the sea—but Cornish waters were chilly, and, one girl said with confidence, that part shrank in the cold. It got bigger and harder when properly motivated.

  “There’s some pain,” Nessa said plainly. She worked at Tamsyn’s stays. “Can’t be helped. But it’s not a forever pain. Remember when you fell off John Pricher’s wall and twisted your ankle?” When Tamsyn nodded, Nessa said, “That was far worse.”

  “Ah,” Tamsyn said, struggling to quiet her anxiety.

  Nessa patted Tamsyn’s cheek. “Oh, child, it’s not all pain. Tell me a time when something felt good.”

  “There used to be a swing set my father put up in the big apple tree in the West Meadow,” Tamsyn recalled. “When I was small, I’d swing and swing, trying to get as high as I could. As though I could float away right up into the sky. I liked that an awful lot.”

  “It’s better than that,” Nessa said decisively. She sighed wistfully. “I miss it, I do.”

  Nessa had been married for a decade before her husband had drowned a few years back. But given the way village men circled around her after mass on Sundays, she didn’t have to be unmarried for long.

  Perhaps it did feel good. Babes were born to unwed women all the time.

  With her stays removed, she stood in her underthings and shoes. She kicked off her dainty slippers and helped Nessa pull off her shift.

  “Ah, but you’re in an enviable place tonight, my girl. No need for fear.” Nessa clicked her tongue. “That husband of yours, he’s no stranger to bedsport.”

  More heat suffused Tamsyn’s body. Men had the luxury of indulging their sexual appetites whenever they liked, without consequence. It wasn’t the same for women. Kit was relatively young, exceedingly handsome, and privileged. It stood to reason that he’d had his share of sexual experience. Even so, thinking about him bedding legions of women made her stomach feel strange and tight.

  He’d said plainly that he had no intention of being faithful—and that he didn’t expect fidelity from her. Would she come to regret this agreement?

  “Yes,” she said, fighting to sound sophisticated. “I know.”

  “He’ll be an artist under the covers,” Nessa assured her. “Think he’d be so popular with ladies if he just stuck it in and spent without a by-your-leave? Not hardly.”

  “I suppose not,” Tamsyn said. That wasn’t the most encouraging description of sex she had heard. She glanced at the bed, but it only seemed to have grown larger and more intimidating in the intervening minutes since she’d last looked at it. “A woman can lie with a man and keep her heart safe, I imagine.”

  Nessa planted her hands on her hips and asked sternly, “What’s this talk, girl?”

  Tamsyn considered prevaricating, but she could never withhold the truth from her friend. She said flatly, “He told me he won’t be faithful.”

  “The devil he did!” Nessa looked outraged.

  “In the park that day he offered marriage,” Tamsyn confirmed. “He said he wasn’t going to keep his vows of fidelity. But I was free to take a lover if I wanted—after I gave him an heir.”

  Nessa’s cheeks darkened with fury and she balled her hands into fists. “I’ll give him a pummeling, I will. Earl or no, he can’t say things like that.”

  “It’s not uncommon, though.” Tamsyn felt strangely obliged to defend him. “People of rank and fashion often have lovers.”

  “They don’t say so when they’re courting!” Nessa fired back.

  Tamsyn sat down on the edge of the bed. “Better this way,” she reasoned, trying to convince herself as much as Nessa. “If he paid me too much mind, he’d get suspicious about what we do in Newcombe.” She affected a shrug. “It doesn’t trouble me. I may grow fond of him, but I’ll never love him.”

  Nessa walked to her and placed her hands on her shoulders. Her expression mingled sadness and resignation. “I know you, my girl. You can’t do anything by half measures.”

  “What would you have me do?” Baffled, Tamsyn lifted her hands in supplication. “I can’t refuse him his husbandly privileges.”

  “Just have a care with your heart,” Nessa answered, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Now, stand up so we can make you ready.”

  Tamsyn rose and remained still while Nessa took down her hair, removing pins and ornaments. At last, her hair came down to hang in loose waves around her shoulders. Fear and excitement warred within her. She couldn’t tell if she craved being intimate with Kit, or if it filled her with dread.

  Nessa cupped Tamsyn’s chin in her hand. “Remember this, my dove. If he wants to kiss you down there, by God, you let him.”

  “Oh,” Tamsyn said faintly. She didn’t know people kissed each other’s parts.

  A soft rap sounded at the door. “It’s Kit,” his muffled voice announced.

  Instead of answering, Nessa handed Tamsyn an embroidered robe—presumably purchased with Kit’s money—before giving Tamsyn’s cheek a pat. Then she hurried out the door. Tam
syn quickly pulled on the robe, then sat on the edge of the bed, her hands tapping against the tops of her thighs.

  “Come in,” she called, her voice oddly loud.

  Kit entered, looking just as delicious as he had all evening. With his neckcloth gone, she could see a glimpse of his throat. He carried a decanter of wine and two glasses. “I thought we could—” He stopped, a puzzled frown on his face. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in bed?”

  “There’s no hurry, is there?” she answered brightly.

  Kit raised a brow but didn’t speak. Instead, he poured two glasses of wine, then sat beside her. The mattress dipped with his weight, and warmth radiated from his body. “Go slow with this.” He handed her a glass. “To make you comfortable, nothing more. No one enjoys making love with a drunken partner.”

  Trying to follow his advice, she took a few sips of wine, rather than downing the whole thing in one gulp. “Damn these nerves,” she muttered ruefully.

  He watched her before drinking from his wine. “You’ve been so brave about everything.”

  She pushed out a laugh. “Not so courageous tonight.” After taking another sip, she spoke, her words edged in frustration. “I want to be a wife to you. Please understand that.” His frame radiated warmth, and she wanted to sink into it, and the strength he offered. While her body craved his touch, her mind and heart held back warily. “It’s all been so fast. We don’t know each other at all, and now we’re supposed to be . . . intimate.”

  “People do this knowing each other far less,” Kit noted. At least he didn’t sound angry or impatient. “Do you understand how sex works?”

  After a moment, she nodded.

  He let out a small exhalation, sounding relieved. “I’ll tell you something and you must promise me you won’t jeer or call me silly.”

  She wasn’t certain he was serious, but at his prompting gaze, she answered, “I promise.”

  He leaned close, his lips hovering by her ear. His warmth and scent enveloped her, and she fought for breath.

  “I’m nervous, too,” he whispered.

  Her eyes went wide. “You?”

  He edged back, giving her some much-needed space. A small smile curved his mouth. “Why not me?”

  “But you’ve done this loads of times,” she protested.

  “With ladies of experience,” he answered. “With a virgin? No.”

  “Surely your first time . . . ?”

  A slightly faraway look came into his eyes. “I was fifteen and she was a worldly seventeen. She wanted a conquest. I was happy to provide one.”

  “So . . . we’re both in the dark here,” she ventured wryly.

  “To an extent,” he allowed. He took a sip of wine, and then set it down on a bedside table. He had to reach across her to do so, and his arm brushed against her breasts. She started. Kit held himself still, then chuckled softly. “Unintentional, that, but I don’t regret it.”

  It hadn’t felt bad, just different. She’d touched her own breasts before and knew they could give her pleasure. Clearly, men liked them, too, because they were often the sought-after prize the few times she’d kissed lads. But they had pawed at her like trying to catch fish with their bare hands. Not exactly delightful.

  “Let’s start slowly,” he offered, plucking her glass from her hand and putting it beside his own.

  She struggled for calm. “How?”

  “With a kiss,” he answered.

  Chapter 8

  Kit slowly moved his hand to cup the back of Tamsyn’s head. Her pupils were huge, her breath shallow, and her body tense as an iron beam. He’d never kissed a skittish woman before, and now here he was on his wedding night, trying to guide a virgin into bed.

  Damn and hell, he wanted her. The ferocity of his desire was shocking. She was both bold and innocent, and the combination inflamed him. He could look for hours at the juncture where her neck met her shoulder, while he ached to learn the feel of her and taste her again.

  In every way, this was far beyond his usual experiences with women. Yet none of them mattered at this moment.

  There was desire and something more. Though he didn’t know Tamsyn very well, what he’d learned of her he genuinely liked. Hurting her, or making her do anything she didn’t want to do, never entered his mind. He truly wanted to make this good for her. Perhaps that desire was selfish. Having a wife who was unenthusiastic about lovemaking made everyone’s life difficult and disagreeable. But if he could teach her that sex was, in fact, one of the greatest pleasures that existed—everyone benefitted.

  “Easy,” he murmured, gentling her as her breathing accelerated. “It’s nothing but a kiss.”

  “We’ve kissed before,” she whispered.

  “Did you like it?”

  She nodded.

  “Now shouldn’t be any different,” he said.

  “It shouldn’t,” she agreed. She glanced at him with trepidation. “But . . .”

  “It does feel different,” he deduced.

  Another nod.

  “Don’t think about where it leads,” he said gently. “All that matters is this moment.”

  Slowly, he lowered his head and brushed his lips over hers. Ah, she was soft and lush. Her skin smelled of warm flowers.

  He softly stroked the curve where her head met her neck. Her abundant silky hair spread over his palm, and at his touch, she drew in a breath. As though gaining strength.

  He pressed his lips more firmly to hers. At first, she held herself still, but then she stirred, kissing him back with growing confidence. Taking a chance, he parted his lips slightly and stroked her with the tip of his tongue. She tasted faintly of wine and a hint of sugar. Tentatively, her tongue touched his.

  God knew he’d had far more deliberately carnal kisses than this. Yet his blood roared in his ears and his groin tightened in reaction. This was new for her. She was discovering herself, and that made her response all the more potent.

  “There,” he purred. “That’s my girl. Give me a little—just a little.”

  He took the kiss deeper, his tongue now caressing hers, their mouths opening. She made a soft, low sound of pleasure. The honesty of her response inflamed him far more than any practiced kiss. She was finding her path, learning the ways of her desires. It was a humbling, wonderful sensation to be the man lucky enough to partner her in this exploration.

  He brought his hand up to rest at the curve of her waist where her warmth seeped into him. As he caressed her, she exhaled again and made more noises of pleasure.

  She angled her body toward his. It was a silent demand for more.

  Yes, he thought. Yes.

  With a leisurely pace, he eased his hand up and up over her rib cage. Then higher, until he cupped the full, velvet weight of her breast.

  She pulled away abruptly. Her eyes had gone wide, and she wore the expression of one who’d misjudged the distance to jump from one side of a chasm to the other.

  Kit struggled for breath, shocked by his own reaction to hardly any touching at all. The artlessness of the desire she’d shown—its complete candor—shook him. He was hard as a pike, his body primed for more.

  “I’m not very good at this,” she said, her words tight with frustration.

  “You’re doing very well.” He, however, felt like a boy barely out of the schoolroom, ready to spend in his breeches without even being touched.

  “I didn’t think I would be this nervous,” she confessed.

  “Perfectly logical, given the circumstances.” He offered her a smile, which she tentatively returned. There had to be another way to reach her and break through her fear. “Tamsyn.”

  “Yes?”

  “Have you ever touched yourself?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “Not like taking hold of your own wrist or scratching your nose. I mean touched yourself.”

  Her redhead’s complexion hid nothing as she blushed furiously. But she held his gaze. “No one’s ever asked me that before.”

  He reached out, taking her
hand between his two palms, and said with humor, “I can tell you that I most assuredly have given myself pleasure. Many, many times.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really?”

  “Especially when I was fighting,” he admitted. “We’d go weeks without meeting any women, and, as I’m not inclined toward the amorous company of men, I needed to do something or else I’d tear off my uniform and throw myself into a freezing river.”

  “That’s understandable.” Her lips curved slightly.

  “It’s a natural thing, to touch yourself. Everyone does it.”

  She looked dubious. “Everyone?”

  “Those who claim they don’t are likely either lying or very unhappy people.”

  A laugh escaped her, then she grew more serious. “It’s said to be sinful.”

  He shook his head. “The only thing that’s sinful about it is when we deny ourselves. I like to think that our Creator wanted us to feel good, or else why would he give us such delightful toys to play with?”

  “A persuasive argument,” she said wryly. After a moment, she said, “I do. In the bath, sometimes. Or when I’m in bed.”

  And there went his cock again, rising up with interest. He tried not to picture the pretty Tamsyn slipping her hand between her thighs and fingering her sweet pussy until she came with a soft cry. The image alone would keep him hard for days.

  He cleared his dry throat. “You know that exquisite feeling you get when everything breaks apart? That rising pleasure that builds and builds until it explodes?”

  A pause. And then, “Yes.”

  “I can make you feel that,” he said earnestly, “over and over again. It might even be better than when you’re alone.”

  She lifted a brow. “Is that because you’ve done . . . it a lot?”

  How to approach this? “I’m not a stranger to what happens in bed,” he allowed. “Think of my experience as leading up to this moment, ensuring you’ll feel good.”

  She was silent for a long while. He made sure to wait, giving her the time she needed. Then she lifted her chin. “I’d like to try again.” She closed her eyes and held her head in such a way that indicated, You may kiss me now.