Page 52 of Miss Desirable
The honor of France, or at least of one drafty château in Bordeaux, rested upon Fournier’s self-control, and by the barest margin of desperate willpower, he held himself in check as Catherine keened softly against his shoulder.
She clutched at him as if he were her last prayer of salvation, and a small eternity passed while pleasure reverberated through her. When she at last subsided onto his chest, Fournier gently withdrew and spent in the warm press of their bellies.
Messy, but honorable.
Also a far greater satisfaction than he’d known in years. He stroked Catherine’s hair and resisted the urge to assess his performance further. That habit, like the habit of regret, had been born of his marriage. Bad habits could be broken.
“This is how it’s supposed to be, isn’t it?” Catherine asked, sitting up and passing Fournier the handkerchief from the bedside table. She watched as Fournier swabbed his seed from her skin and then his.
“The whole point is that great explosion of sensation on both sides,” she went on. “I assumed that for the man something momentous occurred, or else what was all that sweating and panting in aid of, but for the woman… You caressed my breasts, didn’t merely grope and squeeze…” Her expression became thunderous. “He went about it all wrong, didn’t he?”
Fournier could tell her that comparing lovers aloud was not the done thing. He could tell her thatexplosionswere not the point of intimacy for many people. He could make excuses for a selfish, dishonorable young man who should nonetheless have known better.
But above all else, Catherine Fairchild deserved the truth.
Fournier tossed aside the handkerchief and gathered her in his arms. “I do not know thisheyou refer to, but I promise you, Catherine: Any man fortunate enough to earn your intimate notice has every possible inspiration to exert his amorous talents for your pleasure. You should also know that while spending my seed means I amhors de combatfor a time, a lady has no such limitations.”
Catherine passed her tongue over his nipple. “Hors de combat. I have much to learn. For how long?”
Dieu au paradis. “Not long at all, if you keep that up.”
She laughed, the most knowing, feminine, delighted laugh, and Fournier’s heart ached with joy. Catherine Fairchild might take her time inspecting his wares and yielding her trust, she might dither over the actual commitment to marry—wise lady—but Fournier had finally found a woman who would never, ever play him false.
CHAPTERELEVEN
Catherine endured a relentlessly cheerful breakfast among her Dorning siblings. Fortunately, Xavier had prepared her for that ordeal. He would be polite, he’d explained. She would be gracious, and the Dornings could all go to perdition.
A simple and effective plan, if one could ignore knowing smiles and a meal that included ample portions of billing and cooing among the married couples.
“I am astonished,” Catherine said quietly as Fournier waited with her for his coach to be brought around. Sycamore and Jeanette Dorning were seeing them off, though the Earl of Casriel had escorted Catherine down to the porte cochere and had warned her to expect a condolence call from him and his countess within the fortnight.
“Astonished that my coach could be so quickly repaired?” Fournier replied.
“That my siblings could be so… so… blasé about their own scheming. I had some acquaintance with Sycamore and Ash prior to this occasion. I thought they would naturally be less reserved, less formidable than their elders.”
The coach rattled around the circular drive, coming to a halt at the foot of the steps.
“Sycamore and Ash are both men to be reckoned with,” Fournier said. “Mr. Ash Dorning is quiet, but his fencing reveals considerable determination and shrewdness. Sycamore is as quiet as a hurricane, and that, too, is a form of shrewdness.”
“Because a family can accommodate only one hurricane at a time?”
Fournier offered her his arm as they descended the steps. “Something of the sort. They like you, Catherine, and they will not abandon you after this little show of support. The quiet Ash, the charming Kettering, the cordial Lord Casriel, they are allies who command respect in Mayfair. Nobody trifles with a Dorning lest the whole horde take offense.”
Sycamore completed his role as host by kissing Catherine’s cheek in parting, while Jeanette hugged her and beamed at Fournier. He and Jeanette exchanged some words in French, too quickly for Catherine to follow precisely. Something about an uneventful journey home, and some adventures being quite pleasant.
The coach was soon on its way, and Catherine was tucked up against her escort.
“Do you know what astonishes me most of all?” she asked.
“The explosions,” Fournier replied, setting his hat on the opposite bench, untying Catherine’s bonnet ribbons, and divesting her of her millinery. “You are a woman clearly fascinated with a new discovery, and may heaven be thanked, I am the lucky fellow with whom you have begun your explorations. These benches fold out to make a bed, in case you were about to ask.”
“Perhaps if our destination were York, I’d have enough time to put your traveling coach to good use,” she said, “but we will be in London in little more than an hour.”
Fournier took her hand. “If the pleasure we share is not the greatest revelation of the past twenty-four hours, then what astonishes you most,chérie?”
He was the same self-possessed, articulate, conscientious escort, and yet, the look in his eyes had changed, becoming more tender and more… sad? Catherine would try to sort the difference later, when she had solitude in which to think.
“The pleasure is so far beyond astonishing,” she said, “that words fail me in five languages.”
