December Heart Page 7

  “Not to worry,” he said. “Will lived well into adulthood. He served in the army as well, although he managed to avoid the war by taking up an appointment in the Transvaal. He married and had a son, my nephew, William.”

  Something about the way he spoke of his nephew told Mariah the relationship wasn’t a happy one. That didn’t make her feel any less as though she were within arm’s reach of a tragic hero.

  “Will died of a fever six years ago,” Peter went on. “I still miss him.”

  “I’m sure you do.” She hesitated, feeling as though the small space between them were buzzing. Part of her wanted to slide her arms around him and give him the hug she felt that he needed so badly, but the rest of her enjoyed the curious energy of their current position too much.

  “You seem quite close with your parents,” Peter said with the same sort of urgency to keep the conversation going that had prompted her to ask about his mother.

  “We are a close family,” she said, then laughed. “Sometimes a little too close.”

  “Oh?”

  She shifted a bit, as if to share a secret. The movement brought more of her legs into contact with his and her torso close to his, although their arms still formed a barrier between them.

  “You saw the way Victoria is,” she said, arching a brow.

  “I did,” he answered with a twin arch.

  The two of them shared a grin reminiscent of the moment of connection they’d had as they laughed during the wedding ceremony.

  “She’s only bold like that because, at times, Mama treats us both more as her friends than as her children.”

  “Isn’t that as it should be?” Peter asked.

  Mariah blinked in surprise. “Not according to traditional wisdom. Children should treat their parents with respect and awe, or so the books will tell you.”

  “I would rather love my children and be loved by them in return,” Peter said.

  The warmth filling Mariah coalesced into a throbbing ache. As soon as she realized the exact location of that ache, a wealth of other sensations sizzled through her. She did her best to ignore them in favor of the conversation.

  “I usually prefer that myself,” she said, trying to maintain eye-contact with Peter, but unnerved by the depth of…something new in his expression. “But you should have heard her last night.”

  “What did she say?”

  Her breath caught in her lungs as she realized the corner she’d painted herself into. She swallowed. “Actually, she was attempting to explain what I could expect tonight.”

  “Oh?”

  It was one, tiny syllable, and yet, to Mariah, it felt as though someone had just thrown a dozen logs and a packet of gunpowder onto the fire. Every nerve in her body bristled, anxious and impatient, and utterly irrational. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to demonstrate all the things her mother had said, from turgid to viscous. And she still didn’t really know him. Worse still, his heartbeat grew faster and harder under her hand as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, what her body was feeling.

  She cleared her throat. “I asked her if it hurt, and she said it didn’t really. Only that she was distracted by the sensations.”

  His lips twitched, and a downright devilish gleam filled his eyes. As exciting as December could get. Christmas Eve exciting. “What sensations would those be?”

  She worked to hide the trembling that the ache inside of her was starting to cause with a smirk. “I expect you’re experienced enough to know all about that.”

  His eyes sparked and danced as though he enjoyed every minute of her discomfort. “I know,” he said. “But I’ve always been curious about what mothers tell their daughters and whether it’s anything useful or complete rubbish.”

  “Oh, I think what my mother had to say was useful,” she said, her voice a tad too rough.

  “Really?”

  He moved his hand gently over her stomach to rest on her side. The simple movement sent lightning through her veins, leaving her throbbing with curiosity. She should be fighting it. She really and truly should be fighting it.

  Instead, she whispered, “What does viscous mean?”

  “You don’t know?” In the dim light of the lantern on the bedside table, Mariah was convinced she could see the blue of Peter’s eyes turn a deeper shade, near sapphire.

  She wet her lips nervously. “I know what it’s supposed to mean.”

  “But you’d like to know more?”

  She nodded, her breath catching in her throat.

  His hand slipped from her side to her hip. “Are you certain?”

  He was asking for permission. She nibbled her lip and nodded again.

  He drew in a breath and reached farther down her thigh, grabbing a handful of her nightgown and drawing it up over her knees. Then he shifted closer to her, nudging her to her back. The movement was small, but to Mariah, it felt like the undulations of an earthquake. He circled her kneecap with his long fingers, then drew them slowly up the inside of her thigh.

  Her body melted into a riot of sensation as his hand moved upward. The ache in her core was so intense it drove her to distraction. Her legs moved apart with each inch he traveled up the smooth flesh of her thigh, but it wasn’t until she realized that she was the one moving them, willfully giving him access to touch her more and more intimately, that she let out a squeak of shock. Only, it didn’t sound like shock at all. It sounded far more primal, and Peter sucked in a breath at the sound.

  At last, his hand reached the juncture of her thighs, and she gasped as he came into contact with the most intimate part of her. Her mother had been right. The burst of pleasure that his touch caused was like nothing she’d ever experienced before. It was like standing too close to a fire or a tree as it was struck by lightning. More than that, it was like discovering parts of herself that she hadn’t known existed. His fingers did more than brush, they delved. He rubbed and teased and tested at first, then he slid two fingers inside of her, deeper and deeper, stroking her within. Every movement was slick and smooth, like silk, because her body had made it so.

  His hand continued to tease and enflame her, and his whole body moved closer. He nuzzled the side of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair. That was when she realized his breath, like hers, had grown ragged and shallow. The heat radiated from them both like a furnace. More than that, she suddenly became aware that the hot, hard thing pressing against her thigh was him.

  She let out a passionate sigh, but the sound instantly frustrated her. It was supposed to be words. She was supposed to be telling him that she took it all back, that they should do much more than simply sleep in the same bed that night. That in spite of the ridiculousness of her mother’s explanation, she wanted to feel that part of him inside of her. Even if she hardly knew him. He was her husband, after all, and this was their wedding night.

  And then his hand pivoted slightly, and in addition to stroking her on the inside, his thumb made contact with a part of her that might as well have been a flashpoint. In no time at all, the furnace of energy that had built inside of her exploded like a clock wound too tight, and throbbing waves of ecstasy crashed through her. Her inner muscles squeezed around his fingers, and he made a sound that was half triumph, half surrender as she arched against him.

  The waves of pleasure began to lessen, but the tension radiating from him felt as though it had just begun. He withdrew his hand from her cunny—it didn’t matter that her mother had said it was a crude word, in that moment, it fit—and brushed it over her curls to rest his palm against her lower belly. Of all things, that kept the wild, wanton feeling inside of her burning hot.

  “Did you like that?” he asked, a tender note of hope in his voice.

  “Yes,” she panted. And, seeing in an instant how awkward things could become again if she didn’t grab the bull by the horns, so to speak, she rushed on with. “I think I would like it more if we were both naked and it was more than just your hand.”

  He moved so fa
st that if she hadn’t been so saturated with pleasure, she would have laughed. He swept her nightgown up over her head, throwing it to the side. Then he knelt and frantically worked the buttons loose on his night shirt, popping the last one in his haste to remove the thing. He tugged at the string tying his bottoms, and as soon as he pushed them down, his staff sprung up eagerly. Mariah bitterly regretted that the lantern was behind him and that everything she wanted to see was in shadow.

  She, apparently, wasn’t in shadow, though. After kicking his bottoms off, Peter paused, gazing down at her. Never had Mariah been so aware of being naked, and never had she enjoyed it so much. Her legs were still slightly parted, and the part of her that he’d made sing continued to ache. Her breasts tingled and her nipples were taut as he gazed at them.

  “You’re more beautiful than I could have imagined,” he whispered.

  She wet her lips, wishing she could think of something equally tender and wonderful to say to him. The only words she managed to form were, “Isn’t there supposed to be kissing?”

  It worked like a charm. He lowered himself to cover her, their bodies touching everywhere, She spread her legs apart farther as he settled between them. The hair on his chest tickled her oversensitive breasts. But it was the surprise of magnificence when their mouths met that sent her right back to the edge of bliss.

  It was their first kiss, minus the brief peck at the altar. It was the first kiss she’d had since the ones Robert had impatiently stolen. And it was everything she’d dreamed a kiss could be. He parted her lips with his, demanding, but more because he couldn’t hold himself back than from any desire to conquer. His tongue slid along hers, giving her the sensation that they were joined. She wanted more and more of their kiss, never wanting it to stop.

  At the same time, his hand brushed up her side to close around her breast. That too was a powerfully delicious sensation. She arched her back to urge him on. He squeezed just enough to make her sigh and raked his thumb across her nipple. All the while, the deep, aching need to be filled threatened to overwhelm her.

  He broke their kiss at last with deep, desperate pants, nuzzling her cheek and the side of her head. “I can’t,” he started, but switched to, “I need….” Even then, he couldn’t go on. His hips shifted between hers.

  She felt a press of fullness where he had touched her before, but only had a split second to realize his erection was much bigger than his fingers before he entered her. And yet, it was the most divine sensation she had ever felt. She gasped with awe as every last bit of awareness in her focused on the feeling of him stretching and filling her. If there was a moment of pain, it was by far eclipsed by the wonder of being joined with him. It felt so perfect that emotion overwhelmed her.

  And then he started to move. It was glorious. Her heart soared as he moved in and out of her, building her pleasure higher and higher. She couldn’t hold back the sounds that ripped from her throat to match what her body was feeling. It just kept getting better and better as he moved faster and faster. And, God help her, she felt a whole new level of wanting, of craving, of desiring to be one with him like this. She wanted him and the sensation he was firing in her so thoroughly that it consumed her. And when the explosion of pleasure happened again, she welcomed it like the earth welcomed the first burst of dawn and color and life.

  He reached the climax of his pleasure shortly after she did, which was another revelation. She knew nothing about men’s bodies, but had a feeling she was poised to learn everything as he tensed and shuddered, then gradually slowed and collapsed in exhaustion on top of her. The sensation was uncanny and wonderful. She loved the weight and heat of him over her so much that even when he was limp and panting, she wrapped her arms and legs around him to feel everything that she could.

  “Yes,” she sighed as she caught her breath. “Yes, yes, yes, and yes.”

  To which he answered a simple, exhausted, “Good.”

  She tried not to, but she laughed anyhow. Everything felt so wonderful that she couldn't help herself. And rather than feeling like things had reached a satisfactory conclusion, she buzzed as though they were only just beginning. She spread her hands across his back, feeling his muscles. She wriggled her hips against his, squeezing her inner muscles where he was still lodged inside of her, much softer now.

  He laughed with her, his body shaking in the most delicious way. “Wait, wait,” he panted, rolling to the side, much to her regret. “I’m not as young as I once was. Let me rest for a bit, and then we can do it again.”

  “Good,” she repeated, snuggling against him and pressing a kiss into his shoulder. “Because, as it turns out, my mother was right about a great many things.”

  And, she suspected, her father was right when he hatched the idea that the two of them would be a good match.

  Chapter 6

  The one thing Peter hadn’t counted on in his improbable marriage was not the possibility that Mariah would be biddable in bed. Her willingness was one of the possible scenarios he’d considered, even hoped for, before entering their room the night before. The thing that he hadn’t expected was the intensity of self-consciousness when the two of them joined the rest of her family for breakfast the next morning.

  “Good morning,” Mrs. Travers greeted the two of them with a cheery smile as he and Mariah stepped into the breakfast room.

  Like a sentimental boy, Peter had held his new wife’s hand all the way from their bedroom, through the halls, and to the breakfast room, but he dropped it just before rounding the corner. He risked a glance at Mariah only to find her blushing up a storm, her face twitching and contorted as she tried not to laugh. He would never be able to keep a straight face while she dissolved into giggles, so he was forced to look at her mother and reply, “Good morning, madam.”

  “Ah. There you are at last,” Edmund said from the head of the table, reading his paper and sipping coffee, a congenial smile on his face, as though it were an ordinary morning with a guest in the house. “Did you sleep well?”

  Mariah turned quickly toward the sideboard, snatching up a plate and scooping a fried egg off the platter, her lips pressed tightly together and her face blazing.

  “Quite well,” Peter answered with his best attempt at banality, though his face and neck were hot. Not as hot as his entire body and soul had been mere hours before. Mariah had surprised him with her enthusiasm all through the night, and he had surprised himself with a vitality he hadn’t felt in years. In fact, he felt like a man half his age even now, and loaded up his breakfast plate with enough food to build up his energy for what he hoped would be repeated that night.

  The awkwardness continued once Peter and Mariah were seated at the table. Edmund seemed oblivious to the undercurrents of embarrassment that halted their conversation. But Emily kept smiling and smiling until she grew misty-eyed as she studied her daughter.

  “Oh, my dear, I’m so happy for you,” she squeaked at length, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin. “I was so worried, but I see now there was no need.”

  “Thank you, Mama,” Mariah mumbled, then hid her pink face by taking a long sip of tea. Peter was afraid she would choke as her shoulders shook with merriment.

  Across the table from them, Victoria let out a loud sigh and slumped in her chair. “All is lost,” she whispered, adding a second, overdramatic sigh.

  Peter wanted to rest his hand on Mariah’s leg under the table. He wanted to take her hand again. The urge to be in physical contact with her was overwhelming. But he held back, cutting up his sausages and searching for some topic of conversation that would not draw attention to the fact that he and Mariah had thoroughly enjoyed their wedding night. He would indulge in the newfound infatuation he felt for Mariah as soon as the two of them were alone.

  “I don’t like this kerfuffle Turpin and his cronies have started over women’s employment,” Edmund said, turning a page of his newspaper, then folding it and setting it down. “I especially don’t like the way he’s dragging the church into
it.”

  “Unscrupulous men always attempt to drag the church into politics when they need to be seen as angelic while doing something diabolical,” Peter replied, grateful beyond measure to talk about work. “The sad part is that they’ll sway the common people to their cause by claiming the moral high ground.”

  “Makes you wonder about the wisdom of extending the franchise,” Edmund sighed, cutting into an egg on his plate with the side of his fork.

  “I thought you were in favor of extending the franchise, Papa,” Mariah said. “To women as well.”

  “I’m not sure we’re quite ready for that,” Edmund replied with a proud grin for his daughter.

  The awkwardness of having everyone in the room know what had transpired in the night gradually dispelled as Edmund and Mariah launched into a discussion about voting rights. Peter added his bit, but was far more interested in learning how educated and opinionated Mariah was on the subject. She held her own against her father, citing some of the same arguments he’d heard on the floor of Parliament. His fascination with her grew.

  He was on the verge of joining the discussion and offering some contrary opinions just to see how Mariah would react, when the family’s butler, Graves, appeared in the doorway with a silver salver in his hand, and cleared his throat.

  “What do you have there, Graves?” Edmund asked, turning to the man.

  “An urgent message has come for Lord Dunsford, sir,” Graves informed them.

  Peter nodded, taking the letter from Graves’s outstretched salver.

  As soon as he opened it, his body tensed and a headache formed at his temples.

  “What is it?” Edmund asked.

  But it was Mariah’s quiet look of curiosity that prompted him to tell all. “It’s a message from Mr. Snyder, the butler at Starcross Castle. It seems there’s been an emergency at the chief mine on my property.”

  “What kind of emergency?” Mariah asked.

  Peter’s frown deepened as he read the rest of the letter. “The mine produces copper, or at least it did.” He let out a breath, rubbing one hand over his forehead and putting the letter down. “It seems that, as we feared, the copper vein is exhausted.”