Beauty in Breeches(34)

Mesmerised by the seductive invitation in those eyes and the velvet roughness of his deep voice, Beatrice stood up and wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck, knowing that, for him, this was a moment of atonement. Julius swung her into his arms, driven to try to make amends to her in the only way he knew how. Carrying her to the bed, he lowered her gently onto the quilt and followed her down, his lips finding hers in a long, deep kiss.

When he could finally tear himself away from her to remove his clothes, Beatrice watched him unashamedly, glorying in his magnificent body. Slipping out of her robe, she slid beneath the covers and waited for him to join her. When he did, he gathered her to him.

‘You’re trembling,’ he said in the gentlest of voices.

‘I know,’ she admitted nervously. ‘I don’t know why.’

‘Don’t you?’ he asked softly. ‘Perhaps this might help,’ he murmured, placing his hungry lips on hers to still their tremor, tasting the hot sweetness of her mouth.

Feeling as if her heart would surely burst with what was inside her, Beatrice made a tiny, smothered sound of desire and answered him with a melting kiss of her own. It was enough. Julius gathered her tightly to him, pulling her against his full length, clasping her against his rigid thighs while his lips were both rough and tender. When he lifted his mouth from hers, she felt an aching sense of loss that was replaced by sweet torment as he slid his mouth down her neck to her breasts, nuzzling them slowly before his lips closed tightly over her taut nipple. She moaned in helpless pleasure, desire streaking through her, her hands tangling in his hair, her back arching in helpless surrender.

Deliberately taking his time, Julius slid his hands over her like a connoisseur, caressing with skilful reverence, claiming every inch of her for his own, heating her skin and making her ache with soon-to-be-fulfilled yearnings. Eager to do some exploring of her own, Beatrice heard the quickening of his breath as her fingers inched tentatively over his bare flesh, savouring the sculpted hardness of his chest and abdomen. His hands slid lower, curving around her hips, his lips trailing lower and nuzzling closer to the curly triangle between her legs. Beatrice gasped, tilting her head back, her hand gripping his shoulders, her head pounding like a maddened thing, filled with a mixture of excitement and impatience for him to take her.

Julius felt her escalating desire. All his cool control stripped away. Desperate for her, he pulled her beneath him as though he could not withstand another second of denial. Lifting her taut buttocks to receive him, he entered her.

Beatrice opened completely to him, moulding her hips to his as he began to move, presenting him with a gift of surrender, unwittingly driving him to unparalleled agonies of desire, her surrender answering something deep within his soul. Wanting all he had to give, something wild, raw and primitive and savage built inside her, racing through her veins with wrenching pleasure, the undulant waves of his taking increasing to a crescendo of resounding power. Nothing either of them felt was suppressed or hidden, there was just exquisite joy.

They reached their climax in wild, wonderful, burning unison. Julius’s body jerked convulsively again and again, and he clasped her to him, feeling the tiny, shudders of her body as she rung the last pleasure of her orgasm from him. Breathing hard against her cheek, his heart raging in frantic tempo with hers, his body merging into hers, his seed deep inside her, he was more pleased by what had just happened between them than by any other sexual experience of his life. It was also, he thought, the most profound moment of his life.

When reality returned and his breathing evened out, he moved on to his side. Beatrice’s hair spilled over his naked chest like a drift of satin and he raised a hand to smooth it off her face, feeling humbled and blessed by her unselfish ardour—and relieved that this time she didn’t turn from him. Content and sated, their bodies succumbing to the dreamy aftermath of complete consummation, they remained that way for several minutes, then Beatrice stirred and draped a leaden arm around his waist. Julius tipped her chin up so that he could gaze into her eyes.

‘How do you feel?’ he asked softly.

Beatrice’s long, curling lashes fluttered up and her eyes like two languid green pools gazed into his—this man, her husband. She had not sought his love, she did not expect it, and she certainly had no right to it, but at that moment, more than anything she had wanted in her life before, she wanted it.

‘I feel like a wife,’ she whispered. ‘Your wife.’

He laughed huskily. ‘Which is exactly what you are, my love. My wife in every sense. And I feel like a husband,’ he said, with tender solemnity. ‘To think I actually believed there was no such thing as marital bliss.’ Relaxing against the pillows, he revelled in the simple joy of having her in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder. ‘How incredibly stupid I have been.’

‘No, you are not stupid,’ his wife declared loyally, turning her face up to his. ‘Although I would dearly like to know what has given you reason to think that.’ She observed a tightening of his features and something in his eyes warned her not to press, but she was not to be put off. Placing her lips against his shoulder in the gentlest caress, her heart aching, she wished he would open up to her. ‘As your wife I would like to know something of your past, Julius—your parents. Will you not tell me?’

‘Time enough for that,’ he replied, closing his eyes.

Beatrice wriggled on to her stomach and propped herself up on her arms, her face only inches from his. ‘Please be open with me, Julius. I want to know the nature of the man I married. I have always been forthcoming about myself—and you witnessed for yourself the misery of what my life was like at Standish House. I too find it hard to speak about my deepest feelings, but I would willingly do so with you. Despite all my efforts to keep you from seeing my many insecurities, you have a habit of pulling them out of me. I think that is because now I am your wife, I want you to know who I am. I know you are a very private person, Julius, and I respect that, but if you cannot open up to me as I am willing to do with you—even if it’s just a little at a time—then we have no chance of happiness until you can begin to share yourself with me.’

For a moment he did not move, nor did he reply. Then he opened his eyes and met her direct gaze. From the very start, despite her outward show of confidence, as he had gazed into those soft green eyes he had sensed in this brave, unspoiled girl a great capacity for love that made him hope that in time his own most secret yearning would be fulfilled. It was a yearning he had never known and never thought he could have until Beatrice had thrust herself forwards and challenged his spirit. He now felt that he could tell her something of his past without revealing the dark secret he kept locked away in the furthest corner of his mind.

‘It is the way I’ve always been,’ he said in answer to her question. ‘I cannot change the way I am.’

‘I would not expect you to do that, but it is not unnatural for a wife to want to know about her husband. I know you’ve had a difficult past—indeed, we have both suffered because of what our fathers did,’ she said, knowing that whatever she said now might determine their whole future. ‘Lady Merrick has told me a little about your life, and you, if you remember, when you brought me to London. I know of your achievements and how they made you rich, but your family remains a mystery to me. Why, Julius? Why won’t you tell me? I know it is largely down to your father. Is it because you are ashamed? Because if so, I will tell you now that I don’t care who your parents were.’

Rage blazed in Julius’s eyes for a moment, but then he sighed resignedly. ‘Yes, Beatrice, I suppose I am ashamed, but there is more to it than that.’

‘Please tell me?’ she asked softly.

‘If you insist on knowing, I will tell you. Until his demise my whole life revolved around my father. He was a greedy man. It was not in his nature to live his life in modest comfort. He was the Marquess of Maitland, once a name to gain admittance into the highest political and social circles. He was also the worst in a long line of gamblers, falling deeper and deeper into debt running into tens of thousands of pounds. Everything of value was stripped away to pay the bills and his gambling debts. It was sheer hell for my mother. She was constantly at her wits’ end. He was not a good man, nor was he kind—especially not to my mother. He also drank heavily and treated her very badly.’

Beatrice watched, her beautiful eyes wide with shock as pain slashed across his features. ‘That must have been awful for her—and for you, having to witness it.’

Reaching up he pushed her hair casually over her shoulder. ‘He was a brute. The banks were threatening foreclosure on loans he could not hope to cover. Nothing remained against which capital might have been raised. I had a personal income, but Father took it all. He stole and gambled away every penny. Even the properties were gone—pledged against loans he could not hope to repay.’

‘Lady Merrick told me it was some money given to you by your grandmother and your own intelligence and good sense that enabled you to succeed. I admire you for that.’