The Baronet's Bride (Midnight Quill #1.5)(5)

Dimly, he heard the sound of a clock chiming the quarter hour. Had they really been kissing for almost fifteen minutes?

Cecily blinked several times, and he saw awareness flood back into her face. Her gaze dropped from his and the flush in her cheeks deepened, shyness now, not arousal—and he was suddenly a little shy himself.

Gareth turned towards the bed—and the shyness became anxiety. Kissing, he could do; it didn’t require two arms. But sex?

The warmth at his groin evaporated abruptly. His chest grew tight. It was suddenly a lot more difficult to breathe. I can do this, Gareth told himself. I can. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, forced a smile to his mouth, and took Cecily’s hand.

He drew her towards the bed, with its pillows piled high and the covers turned back at one corner to display clean, white sheets, and was faced with a dilemma. He couldn’t hold Cecily’s hand and pull the bedcovers back enough for them both to climb in. Gareth released her and tried to peel back the covers, but they were tucked in so tightly that he had to tug, and when he tugged the pillows spilled everywhere.

Cecily caught one before it hit the floor. She met his eyes and uttered a little giggle.

Gareth struggled for an answering laugh. He gathered up the pillows awkwardly while Cecily pulled back the covers, her movements as swift and deft as his were clumsy. His cheeks felt hot with embarrassment. If this had happened to him last year, when he’d had two arms, he’d have laughed. Now, though, it wasn’t amusing; it was mortifying. He couldn’t even turn back the covers without making a mess of the bed, because he had only one goddamned hand—

He caught himself before he could spiral into futile, helpless anger. Not anger at Cecily—anger at the world for doing this to him, and at himself for coping so badly with it. He breathed in through his nose, exhaled slowly, and released as much of his tension as he could. Tonight wasn’t about pillows; tonight was about making love to his wife.

Except that he’d never felt less like making love than he did at this moment. What he wanted was to scuttle back to his bedchamber and shut the door and pretend that this wasn’t his wedding night.

Gareth set his jaw. He’d never deserted in battle; he wasn’t going to desert now.

The pillows were all in place again, a teetering pile against the headboard, and the covers were pulled back enough for the two of them. The bed should have looked inviting; instead, it looked intimidating. He tried to smile at Cecily, to project a confidence he didn’t feel. “After you.” He held out his hand to her and Cecily clasped it and climbed up onto the bed and slid sideways, making room for him.

The eagerness he’d experienced while kissing her was completely gone. The hum in his blood was anxiety, not arousal.

Cecily was waiting for him to join her in the bed, sitting in her nightgown looking shy and flushed and quite delicious—and Gareth was horribly afraid that he was going to disappoint her tonight. He dragged a shallow breath into his lungs. I can do this.

Cecily had climbed onto the bed gracefully; he did it awkwardly. A panicked little voice whispered in his head: Oh, God. Oh, God.

Gareth sat back against the piled-up pillows and inhaled another shallow breath. He didn’t like to rush things in bed. He enjoyed taking his time, bringing his partner to release with his hands or his mouth before taking his own pleasure. But most of the things he was good at were things he could no longer easily do. It wasn’t just that he had no left hand, it was the tenderness of his stump, the fact that he couldn’t rest his weight on his left arm at all, couldn’t brace himself on it while he knelt over Cecily and teased her with his right hand or with his tongue.

Gareth’s brain froze in something close to panic—everything he wanted to do with Cecily required two hands and two arms—and then began to work again. He managed to smile at his bride, sitting shyly in the bed alongside him. “Um, I think riding St. George would be best tonight.”

Cecily’s shyness became tinged with confusion. “Riding St. George?”

Gareth tried to think what other names her husband might have called it, but came up with nothing. “Did your husband never lie on his back and have you, um . . . mount him?”

Cecily shook her head. “Frederick and I were only married for two weeks before he died.”

“Oh,” Gareth said, dismayed. He knew she’d been widowed not long after she’d married, but he hadn’t realized that her marriage had been quite so appallingly brief.

Perhaps Cecily saw his dismay because she said, as if offering an apology: “Frederick and I only had congress with one another five times.”

“Oh,” Gareth said again, while he realized two things. Firstly, that Cecily wasn’t nearly as experienced as he’d thought she was. And secondly, that tonight was going to be a lot more awkward than he’d feared.





Chapter Four





Cecy had thought she’d known everything that a wife needed to know about sexual congress, but clearly she hadn’t. It had never occurred to her that a woman could mount a man, but, now that she considered it, it was physically possible.

To ride St. George. To sit astride a man and ride his organ.

She could quite see that it would be easier for Gareth if they did it that way, on account of his arm, but that didn’t stop embarrassment sweeping through her. And with the embarrassment was a twinge of anxiety, because Gareth was expecting her to ride him and she didn’t know how to.