Page 38 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
He leant closer and teasingly kissed her mouth, encouraging her to relax beneath his body so that her limbs and muscles were at ease, as with soft, gentle thrusts, he started to rock within her. It mattered that this experience was good for Clara. He wanted to capture her entirely and the desire he felt for her. No, this would have to be everything because neither of them wished to think about what came next.
Shifting himself within the tight confines of her clinging sex, he adjusted himself on the ground, his knees resting on the thrown-down carpet.
Then she moved again. All curiosity and delight as her hand moved up to hold his cheek, fondness and kindness radiating out of her, and he almost lost himself as he plunged deeper into her wet, warm hold.
Looking down at Clara, a smile creased his face. Lord above—she was desirability personified. All lush, delicious curves peeking out of her evening ball gown, a flash of her left nipple, inflamed and pinkened, visible still. Her golden-red hair was loose and encircled her head. The wide, tempting curve of her mouth begged for more kisses. He wished he had time to thoroughly divest her of her clothes and completely explore her body. Still, he reasoned, there would be time in the future to think about this—the most important thing was to ensure she was happy with her first time.
The way she held him and gripped his shoulders as if she were reluctant to let go. As he eased out of her, Woolwich started to rock more persistently. A slow, gradual movement, gently rocking in and out of Clara’s body. His mouth sought out hers, to kiss and slip his tongue over the seam of her lips, slipping his tongue inside, teasing and tasting her in a mimic of the way his manhood was plundering her body. Clara responded sweetly, her mouth and tongue matching his hunger, her hips lifting to better accommodate him.
At the back of his eyes, there was a gripping, gnawing need—the threatening grip of his own climax was starting to mount within him. His mouth moved from her lips, down her throat, and over her décolletage to capture that tempting nipple. With as much skill as he could manage, his tongue tasted and teased the elongated pink nubbin, listening to Clara’s grip on his hair as he felt her body clench about his, keen to drive her wild before he found his own release.
Her gasped-out response unmanned him. Clara’s legs wrapped around his back, tearing, by the sounds of it, her skirt in her eagerness. Her sex gripped him more securely, flexing and milking him until Woolwich could no longer see straight. The familiar skin and muscle which was his own felt foreign, robbing him of his worries and fears, whipping such things away as his own cry joined hers. His body past control, and he pounded into her again and again until everything came apart.
Bliss.
The utter stillness of being inside her, still and at peace with himself for the first time in such a long time.
Think clearly. Focus.
He was conscious of his breath, deep and heavy, as he righted himself and withdrew from her body. He collapsed beside her, and then when he felt a touch more prepared, he leant over and pulled her against him, wrapping his arms around her tenderly, completely, as if to tell the world, were it to enter here, no one would be able to take this woman away from him.
Clara was still in his arms for minutes, neither of them speaking as emotion buzzed through the pair of them. Woolwich reasoned they were staying silent for fear of breaking the magic that burnt brightly between them. That was certainly the case for him. With gentle hands, he stroked along her back as she lay across his chest. Discarded items of clothing had been abandoned close by. There was the faraway chatter of voices—soon, far too soon, someone would come and look for her. And it was this thought that made him sit up finally. Easing them both into a sitting position, preparing to dress and once more face the outside world.
Closing his hand over his jacket, he pulled it roughly on. When he turned, still on his knees, it was to see that Clara had righted the front of her gown and was twisting and pulling her ringlets back into place. For all her righteous actions, it would make very little difference since they had torn the skirt of her gown. It would take a skilled dressmaker to mend this, and Woolwich told himself he would supply her with any new clothes she might ever need. Despite this, there was a warm blush to her cheeks. Her lips were likewise pinked from his stubble and kisses. Anyone with an ounce of sense would know what had happened to her, and Hurstbourne would take one look at her and insist on a special license.
Shifting back closer to her, Woolwich drew in a breath to begin. Slowly, he placed a hand beneath her chin, so she would look up into his face and meet his gaze. It was important they be honest with each other now and that she be safe. “You need to go straight to your bedchamber when we leave here. Ring for your maid and tell her that you feel sick.”
“I can change my dress.”
“It is not worth the risk.”
Clara frowned. “I don’t understand. What risk? The risk that we… we could be—we might have…” He could see tears forming in her eyes.
“There is always a slight risk of you falling pregnant, but you need not fear that I would do anything to desert you. I would never be so cruel, please believe me.”
She wasn’t listening, too busy pulling the folds of her dress away from her feet so she could stand up. “I will need to wed immediately.”
Woolwich stayed on the ground. He had been meaning to get to that point, although trust his Clara to get there so directly. It was, of course, typical of Clara to come directly to her point, and he couldn’t resist smiling at her outspokenness. Bending on one knee, he came into the traditional position to make an offer of marriage.
To his slight amusement, Clara did a double take once she had righted herself and seen him.
Stretching out his hand, Woolwich reached for hers, and caught up her unresisting fingers, bringing them to his lips and planting a kiss upon her palm. Surely, she could not be so surprised at him or his question, not after what had happened between them. “Will you marry me?”
His query hung in the air a moment too long, and the expected reaction he had sought or desired did not materialise. In fact, Clara started chewing her bottom lip as she considered him. After a moment, awkwardly, Woolwich got to his feet. For all the delightful progress he had assumed they had made as lovers, they did not seem any more aligned now as they stood here looking at each other, the space between them fraught.
“You have only offered for me because you think I may be pregnant?” Clara asked.
“Is that not a very good reason to offer for a woman?” There was a touch of annoyance within him, Woolwich knew. Since Clara had to question absolutely everything, could this not be the one time she did not?
Clara nodded, but she was still frowning. It was hard not to assume she, therefore, did not entirely believe him. Or rather she did not think it was true. “We don’t know that I am. Fertile or able to procreate. Many couples never have children.”
With a decisive move, Clara made as if to walk away from him. The threat of such a retreat caused Woolwich to hurry after her, catching her arm. Perhaps, he reasoned, she had not been informed in such great detail on the matter and thought it would take them already being wed before she might fall pregnant, He had heard some girls were taught such nonsense.
“Your sister seems to have no… problems there. Nor did your mother, who had four children, yes?” Woolwich asked. He did not wish to start a long debate on fertility with Clara. “I have fathered a child. Given all these signs, I would fear consequences if we did not marry.”
“That is the best reason you can give for matrimony?” Clara was looking up into his face, a query bending her features, but as to what purpose, he could not ascertain. What did she want him to say?
“I have ruined you, and I would not wish…” Woolwich paused, uncertain precisely what he wanted to say next. There was a distaste of speaking so brutally to her, and yet she could not be ignorant of such realities. He had no desire to see her marry another. The idea that the blasted Mr. Goudge might presume to be in the same room as Clara made him want to murder the don. “You know you cannot wed Goudge now.”
