First Comes Scandal (Rokesbys #4)(70)

“But—But—” This made no sense. Men of their society sowed their wild oats before they married. It’s what they did. It was how they learned. Wasn’t it?

“Do you mind that you’re my first?” Nicholas asked.

“No!” Goodness, that had come out with a bit more force than she’d intended. “No, not at all. I’m merely surprised.”

“Because I’m such a rogue?” he said with a self-deprecating quirk of his brow.

“No, because you’re so good at it.”

His mouth slid into a wide, naughty smile. “You think I’m good, do you?”

She covered her face with her hands. Dear God, she was blushing so hard she was going to burn her palms. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Oh, I think you did.”

She made a vee with the fore and middle fingers of her right hand and peered through the space. “Maybe just a little?”

“Just a little bit good?” he teased. “That’s not much of a compliment.”

“Do you see how embarrassed I am?”

He nodded solemnly.

“And you have no remorse.”

Again with the solemn nod. “None.”

She snapped her fingers back together.

“Georgie,” he murmured, gently prying her hands from her face. “If I’m any good at this, as you say, it is only because I’m with the right person.”

“But how do you know what to do?” she asked suspiciously. Because if he didn’t … well, they were going to be in trouble. She’d been counting on him being the one to move things along.

“All I’ve done thus far is kiss you,” he said, “and I must confess, I have done that before.”

Her eyes narrowed. “With whom?”

His lips parted with surprise, and then he let out a bark of laughter. “Do you really want to know?”

“Wouldn’t you want to know if it were me?”

He didn’t answer right away. “I’m not sure,” he said.

“Well, I am. Who was it?”

He rolled his eyes. “The first time was—”

“It was more than once?”

He poked her lightly in the shoulder. “Don’t ask questions if you don’t want the answers, Georgiana Bridgerton.”

“Rokesby,” she reminded him.

“Rokesby.” His eyes softened. “So you are.”

She touched his shoulder, letting her fingers trail seductively over his nightshirt to the warm skin of his neck. “Although …”

His voice hitched. “Although?”

Her eyes met his. A strange womanly thrill zipped along her skin. “Some would say,” she said slowly, “that I’m not truly a Rokesby yet.”

He kissed her, once, and lightly, whispering his words against her lips. “Then I suppose we will have to do something about that.”





Chapter 19





Nicholas had never planned to remain a virgin so long. He had certainly never explicitly thought to himself—I shall not lie with a woman unless we are wed.

He had no moral objection to sexual congress before marriage, no religious one, either. Perhaps a medical objection—he knew far too much about syphilis to find attraction in indiscriminate intercourse.

But he’d never made a conscious decision to hold onto his virginity until he lay with his wife. It was more that the opportunity never seemed to present itself. Or at least not the right opportunity, and the thought of doing the deed simply to have it done had never sat well with him.

If he made love to a woman it should mean something. It didn’t have to mean they were married. It didn’t even have to mean he was in love. But it ought to mean more than the ticking of a box.

Maybe things would have been different if he’d done it when he was young, when all his friends were foolish and immodest and eager for pleasure. It might have happened—hell, it probably would have happened—his first year at Cambridge had it not been for an ill-timed head cold. A group of his friends had gone out carousing, and they’d ended up at a high-end brothel. Nicholas had meant to be with them, but he’d taken ill the day before, and thought of adding a hangover to his congestion was more than he could bear.

So he’d stayed in his rooms, and his friends were taught the so-called ways of manhood. He’d listened to their boasts because—well, because he was nineteen years old. Did anyone think he wouldn’t listen?

But he’d also thought he might learn something. Then he realized that none of his friends had a clue what they were talking about, and if he wanted to really learn something he ought to ask a woman.

He never did, though. Who would he ask?

But he kept listening, and over the years men talked and boasted, usually when they were slightly—or extremely—intoxicated. Most of it was utter shite, but every now and then he’d hear something that made him think—That makes some sense. And he’d file it away in his brain.

Because he’d want that information eventually. When he did finally make love to a woman, he wanted to do a good job of it.

That time had finally come, and now, as he kissed his wife, he realized that he was nervous. Not because this would be new for him, but because it would be new for her. He knew he was going to enjoy it. Hell, he was damn near certain he was about to have the best morning of his life.