The Baronet's Bride (Midnight Quill #1.5)(4)
If my arm pains me, I mustn’t let her see it. Because his arm often did still pain him, and that was a certain way to destroy Cecily’s enjoyment of their lovemaking: if she thought it hurt him.
Somewhere, a clock started chiming. Gareth didn’t need to count the strokes to know what time it was. Ten o’clock.
Gareth listened to the last note die away. He was almost as nervous as he’d been before battle. The muscles in his stomach were tight, and the ones in his chest, making each breath shallow, and the muscles in his shoulders, his neck, his jaw. Was he sweating? God, he hoped not. He rubbed his face roughly. Yes, that was sweat on his face, and that was just what Cecily didn’t deserve, a lover who was as sweaty as he was tense. “Pull yourself together, Locke,” he told himself aloud.
He inhaled a slow breath, and a second, a third, and looked at the door that led to Cecily’s bedchamber.
The man he’d been before Waterloo would have wanted to open that door. He’d have been a little nervous, yes, because it was their first time together, but mostly he would have been eager, looking forward to making love to his bride, learning her body, discovering what made her gasp, what made her moan, confident in his ability to please her.
He needed to be that man tonight—the proficient lover—even if it was only pretense.
He could do that: pretend. Hell, he’d pretended every time he’d gone into battle. Pretended a courage and confidence and calmness he hadn’t felt, and it had worked, he’d been that man on the battlefield, the clear-headed and fearless officer, even if he’d been terrified inside.
If he’d done it then, he could do it now. It wasn’t as if Cecily was a French cuirassier. She wouldn’t try to run him through with a sword.
No, she was no cuirassier, but her disappointment would be as painful as if she’d stabbed him, her pity even worse, and if she recoiled from him, if he somehow managed to disgust her . . .
It would slay him just as surely as any sword could have.
Gareth took a deep breath and set his jaw with determination. I can do this.
He crossed to the door, and somehow it felt exactly like going into battle. England’s future didn’t rest on what happened tonight, but his future with Cecily did. It would set the tone for the rest of their marriage. Success, or failure.
Be the husband Cecily deserves, Gareth told himself. Don’t make her regret marrying you.
He forced his mouth into a smile and rapped lightly on the door.
Chapter Three
Cecily opened the door. “Gareth,” she said, and suddenly his smile felt much more natural. How could he not smile when she stood there in front of him, candlelight gilding her golden hair, a shy smile of her own on her sweet, soft lips? Gareth lost himself in her eyes for a moment, so incredibly blue, like gentians and summer skies, and then remembered his wits. “Would you prefer to do this in your room or mine?”
And then he mentally kicked himself. Do this? That was the sort of thing a farmer would say when putting a ram in with the sheep. Shall we do it in this paddock or that one? Blunt and matter-of-fact and not at all romantic. Nothing like a man about to make love to his wife for the very first time.
He felt himself flush with shame, but Cecily didn’t seem offended by his choice of words. “I don’t mind,” she said, and she took his hand, her fingers warm and slender, and Gareth stepped into her bedchamber and the decision made itself: her room, not his.
Cecily tilted her face up to him in silent invitation.
Gareth bent his head and kissed her gently, reaching for her with his left hand to draw her into an embrace—only to remember that he no longer had a left hand. He felt the familiar sick jolt of realization, the jolt that came a hundred times a day, and his kiss faltered for a moment, and then he managed to force his way past it, to pretend that it didn’t matter if he couldn’t put both his arms around his wife.
Cecily’s lips parted and her tongue shyly touched his lower lip. Gareth mirrored the movement. They eased into the kiss slowly, two people who were still discovering one another. Cecily released his hand and slid both her arms loosely around his waist, and if he couldn’t do the same to her at least he could bury his fingers in her soft hair, could cradle the back of her head in his palm and draw her a little closer. They leaned into one another, their bodies touching lightly, and it was a new intimacy: standing this close to his wife, only two thin layers of linen separating them, his nightshirt, her nightgown. He felt Cecily’s warmth, her slenderness, her curves.
Gareth set himself to learning how his wife best liked to be kissed, discovering what made her tremble and what made her clutch his nightshirt and press herself eagerly against him. The softness of her lips was intoxicating, the smoothness of her teeth, the heat of her mouth, and the tiny moan she uttered when he sucked on her tongue made him groan in response.
Heat began to gather in his groin—and confidence began to gather in his heart. He could do this: satisfy his wife, give her pleasure, make love to her.
They kissed . . . and kissed . . . and kissed, kisses that were sweet and eager and tender and passionate, while the candlelight flickered and the shadows shifted and the fire mumbled in the grate. Finally they parted, both breathing raggedly. Gareth dragged air into his lungs and stared down at his bride. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips rosy and kiss-swollen, her pupils dilated. She looked as dazed as he felt.