the touch of his fingers in such an intimate caress. Her brain refused to allow her to respond to the incredible sensation of his naked body pressed against hers, cool skin against cool skin. He lifted himself above her, taking as much of his weight as he could on his elbows.
‘Trust me,’ he repeated breathlessly. ‘I will try to hurt you as little as I can. Now!’
With a firm thrust he penetrated her. She cried out against the unexpected invasion that filled her, stretched her, causing her to struggle for the first time against the intrusion.
‘Lie still,’ he ordered, but his voice was infinitely gentle. And he remained motionless himself except to brush his lips over her hair and eyes and then finally her mouth, parting her lips with his tongue as he had invaded her body. She allowed her taut muscles to relax again and as soon as he sensed it he began to move within her. Slowly at first. She tensed her muscles again momentarily against his total possession of her body, but his smooth controlled movements did not lessen. His thrusts became deeper and more urgent so that she clung to him, fingernails buried in his shoulders as there seemed to be no other alternative. Then, as desire finally overset his iron control, he shuddered into his climax, pinning her to the bed with the weight of his body. Frances lay in emotional and physical emptiness, sensation ebbing, leaving her devastated, drained of coherent thought. Why had she found it impossible to respond with any warmth—even the merest hint of pleasure? She knew in her heart that he had taken her with care and compassionate tenderness—so why did she feel that she had in some way failed him? And yet she had sensed something there for her in his touch far beyond her reach.
Aldeborough slowly withdrew to lie beside her, leaving one arm thrown possessively across her body. He had found her most appealing, slim and firm with small high breasts. Her skin was like water over silk. He smoothed his hand along the satin length of her back to her waist and over the curve of her hip. He had found no difficulty in becoming aroused and consummating their marriage. But in spite of physical satisfaction he was disturbed by a ripple of unease. True, she had not repulsed him, but he had been unable to break through her intense reserve. For the most part she had remained rigid and unresponsive.
He had not expected this, in spite of her ignorance. Aldeborough knew that she had a courageous, vital spirit beneath her quiet demeanour, and except for that one occasion in the library at the Priory, she had never flinched from him. Nor had she ever attacked him with tears or recriminations. He had thought that she would take some pleasure from their coupling, or at least accept it with equanimity. But not this withdrawal, rejection even. He was surprised by an unexpected twinge of failure for all his experience. He had not done his best for her. He could have taken more time to awaken her emotions and senses, but he had believed that it would merely have prolonged the agony of anticipation for her.
Aldeborough sighed and, drawing away from her, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, hunting in the dark to retrieve his discarded clothing. He was halted by the hesitant touch on his arm. He turned back to her where she lay, lost in shadows except for the gleam of the moonlight on her chemise.
‘My lord …’ her voice was barely a whisper ‘… did I displease you? I am sorry if you found me … unattractive. But I didn’t know—’
‘Frances.’ It struck him like a physical blow that she believed he had abandoned her in disgust. And how hard it must have been for her to turn to him. ‘You must never think that. I simply thought that you might like some privacy. That you might wish to sleep alone.’
‘Of course. Forgive me.’ The words tumbled out in an agony of embarrassment. ‘I did not mean to imply … I did not intend to impose on you.’ She turned away so that all he could see were her rigid shoulders.
He sighed. He should have been more careful with her. With all his experience he had frightened her and there was now little he could do to remedy it. His conscience pricked him with a full-blown blast of guilt. He rolled back on to the bed. ‘Come here,’ he said gently.
‘Please don’t be angry with me.’
Which was a strange thing for her to say. ‘Why should I?’
He pulled the chemise modestly down around her ankles and rearranged the lace neckline so that it lay becomingly around her shoulders. He pushed her hair away from her face, running his fingers through the tangles until she cried out in protest. Her eyes were closed, but he was relieved that there were no tears. He drew her gently into his arms so that her head rested on his shoulder and tucked the sheet comfortingly around them both—as if she was a child in need of reassurance. She made no resistance.
‘Are you comfortable?’
He felt the tiniest nod of her head against his chest.
‘You must never think that you disgust me, Frances. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘You are allowed to call me Hugh.’ She could hear the smile in his voice, but she had suffered enough intimacies for one night and simply turned her face into his shoulder.
Silence fell between them.
He felt no inclination to break it.
‘Go to sleep, Frances Rosalind,’ he murmured. Virgins were the very devil, he mused. Not that he had much knowledge of them. Letitia Winter’s practised embraces were far more predictable and never disappointing. For a moment he enjoyed the image of Letitia’s ample breasts and shapely hips, and remembered the touch of her clever fingers as she roused him to heights of mutual pleasure. And then he closed his mind to it. He stroked his wife’s hair until she relaxed against him and her breathing deepened. She was warm and soft and pliable in his arms. He felt a surprising feeling of contentment steal through his limbs. Eventually he followed her into sleep.
She awoke as the first light of dawn crept into the room to find him gone. Her body felt sore as she turned over in bed and sat up, her muscles complaining. The imprint of his body and head were still clear beside her, but she had no memory of his leaving. Her gown and petticoats had been neatly folded on to a chair with her stockings on top and her shoes beneath, but his clothes were gone. She was not sorry. Shyness overcame her as she remembered the demands of his body on her own. And shame that she had been so frozen into unresponsive rigidity. But she also remembered his kindness and the gentle tenderness that she had not expected. She raised her hand to her mouth. She fancied that she could still taste his kisses and sense the imprint of his lips on her throat as if they had left actual marks on her fair skin. She swung her legs out of bed, hoping that she might regain her composure with her clothing before she had to confront him again.
Chapter Five
Frances need not have worried.
When she was ushered into the breakfast parlour by Watkins, the elderly butler, there was no Aldeborough for her to face, nor, to her intense relief, had Lady Aldeborough put in an appearance. Instead she was greeted by a friendly smile from Matthew and a direct and assessing gaze from a young lady whom she had not yet met but whom she immediately recognised. The lady had clearly just arrived, dressed in the sprigged muslin and blue sash of the débutante and dangling a straw bonnet by its ribbons in a cavalier fashion. She was sufficiently like Matthew to brand her as his sister, but her hair was much fairer with auburn tints. She was blessed with a youthful prettiness, a lively expression and a decided sparkle in her eyes. Frances found it an interesting experience to be under the shrewd scrutiny of a lady younger than herself. So this was Aldeborough’s sister, who did not appreciate the benefits of education but was undoubtedly enjoying her first Season.
‘Frances!’ Matthew, with
