with its opulent hangings, the comforting fire still burning in the grate. ‘Wealth. A title. Respectability. What more could I want?’ Bitterness rose in her that he should take it all for granted.
‘Next you will tell me that you would rather be back at Torrington Hall with Charles as your prospective husband.’ Aldeborough’s heavy irony was not lost on her.
‘No.’ She sighed, lowering her hands to her lap. ‘In all honesty I cannot.’
‘I like your honesty,’ he commented gently. ‘I would like you to have this. It is a personal gift.’ From his pocket he withdrew a flat black velvet box. He handed it to her. It was much worn at the corners, and the clasp had broken loose. In the centre was a faded coat of arms stamped in gold. ‘A bride gift, if you like. My mother still has all the family heirlooms and jewellery. I will arrange for you to have the ones that suit. There are some very pretty earrings, I believe, and a pearl set that you would like. But this belonged to my grandmother. She left it to me to give to my wife. It is a trifle old fashioned and not very valuable, but it has considerable charm and I hope you will wear it until I can give you something better.’
Frances opened the box to reveal a faded silk lining. On it rested an oval silver locket on a fine silver chain. The workmanship was old and intricate with a delicacy of touch. Its surface was engraved with scrolls and flowers, the centres of which were set with small sapphires. She opened the locket. Inside she found the empty mountings for a miniature with the words engraved on the opposite side My Beloved is Mine.
‘It is beautiful,’ she said softly, tracing the delicate scroll work with a finger, unable to meet his eyes. ‘I have never been given jewellery before.’
He took the locket from her and moved to clasp it round her throat. ‘The roses seemed appropriate, Fair Rosalind.’
The brief touch of his fingers on her neck as he fastened the clasp sent a shiver through her tense body. Her eyes, wide and dark, met his fleetingly in the mirror. He nodded.
‘It suits you very well. There is a sapphire necklace the exact colour of your eyes.’ He hesitated, lost in their depths for the length of a heartbeat. ‘But I fear that my mother will refuse to part with it this side of the grave.’
The locket lay on her breast, the tiny sapphires catching the light like pinpointed stars with her heightened breathing.
She would have moved away from him, but he took hold of her wrist in a firm grasp, using his free hand to tilt her chin upwards. With one finger he traced the outline of her lips, his featherlight touch delicate and reflective. Her breath caught in her throat as she read the intention in his eyes. His arm slid around her waist, drawing her closer, and he bent his head to press his mouth to the pulse fluttering at the base of her neck, just above where the locket gleamed in the candlelight. Her immediate instinct was to raise her hands and push against his shoulders. Sudden fear engulfed her, surprising her in its intensity.
He raised his head. His eyes were devastatingly clear and possessive. ‘Don’t fight me, Frances.’
‘I am not fighting,’ she managed to gasp as he renewed his assault on her throat. ‘I did not expect—’
‘Of course. A business arrangement—that was what we agreed.’ There was no mistaking the sneer in his voice. ‘And it will be. You have my wealth and my name. And as long as you are discreet, I will not interfere with your … amusements. Neither will I impose myself on you overmuch.’ Her heart sank at this cold assessment of their future. ‘But I need an heir. And there must be no room for an annulment if your uncle decides to be uncooperative and you wish to escape from the clutches of Cousin Charles.’
‘Yes, my lord. I know my duty.’ Her reply was as cold as his, masking the misery in her heart.
‘That sounds very cold comfort. I believe it is possible to derive some pleasure from a wifely duty.’ A faint smile accompanied the mockery in the lines around his thinned lips. ‘Am I so unpalatable to you as a husband?’
‘No, my lord.’
He bent his head again to claim her lips with his own, at the same time releasing her hair from its ribbons in a perfumed cascade on to her shoulders. He wound his hand into the silken length of it to hold her in submission as he increased the pressure on her mouth. Against her will her lips opened tentatively under his. Shock swept through her as, withdrawing a little, his tongue traced the outline of her lips before invading again. He released her, but only so that his hands could deal with the fastenings of her gown.
‘It seems that I must be servant as well as lover tonight,’ he murmured against her throat.
He left a trail of feathery kisses from her jaw along the curve of her throat to her shoulder as his fingers expertly worked their way through the tiny buttons and laces. Frances was only aware of the heat spreading throughout her body from her toes to her hairline as the white sprigged muslin slipped into a pool at her feet. Her breathing was shallow and she gasped as his hard mouth returned to possess her lips once more. All she could hope for was that he would be understanding of her ignorance and lack of experience.
Aldeborough was acutely aware of her anxiety in the tension in every part of her body, in the rapid beat of her pulse beneath his lips. ‘Do you trust me?’
She stood rigidly in his embrace.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied honestly, her eyes wide with apprehension.
His answering touch was gentle, holding her captive, pressing her soft curves to the length of his body. He moved his hands to caress the sides of her ribs through her fine chemise and allowed his palms to brush the soft swell of her breasts. Then, as she heard his own breathing change, he let his hands fall and stepped back—but only to kneel at her feet with elegant grace to remove her garters. His fingers stroked the satin skin of her thigh, calf, ankle, as he smoothed her stockings down to her delicately arched feet.
At last he rose, pausing to snuff the branch of candles to allow her the anonymity of darkness.
He stood and looked at her in the flickering shadows cast by the one remaining candle. Her eyes were dark and fathomless like bottomless pools. Her skin ivory, flushed with rose, but icy, her whole body held in check as if her one desire was to flee from his touch.
‘I am afraid,’ she whispered.
‘But there is no need.’
He stooped to lift her into his arms effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing, and then laid her on the high bed. He was touched by compassion. He would do his best for her, to make it an acceptable experience. He stayed only to divest himself of his clothing before stretching his body beside her and began to kiss her. Gently at first, them more urgently, her mouth, hair, face, then along her throat to her shoulders, his lips burning on her cool skin. She had never imagined that her cool self-possessed husband could generate such fire. She shivered as he pushed aside her chemise and allowed his hands to drift down her slender body, brushing her nipples and stroking her flat stomach. Frances felt a response awaken deep within her when she become acutely aware of his arousal, strong and hard against her thigh. He continued his exploration of her body, discovering tantalising curves and hollows that fit so naturally against his palms, teasing her nipples with his tongue until they became erect. She gasped at the electric effect, the heat in her blood, and hid her face against his shoulder, conscious of his own disciplined breathing as if holding his actions on a tight rein.
Then he changed his position so that he could part her thighs with his knee and
