Page 19 of What the Lady Wants
She lay in bed in her new nightgown – a nightgown her mother would greatly have disapproved of, and all the better for it. It was the sort of thing she had worn, albeit briefly in both senses of the word, when she had been married to Ash. Those garments had mysteriously disappeared after hisdeath, and she presumed her mother had removed them; they had never discussed the subject, and now never would. She experienced, as she often did when she thought of her mother, a disagreeable pang of guilt. She could not help but appreciate the thoughtfulness that had caused her mama to hide the flimsy, deliberately seductive night-rails; she could imagine herself coming across them in the weeks and months after Waterloo and collapsing in floods of tears at the tender, now painful recollections they called up. It would have been one of many such collapses, and she must be grateful to have been spared that one at least. Her mother had been endlessly patient, kind and thoughtful during the months of her illness, and she was not sure she had ever really thanked her for it. When she had begun to feel herself recovered, she had become impatient, touchy, quick to take offence. And then she had to all intents and purposes run away, to take refuge with Blanche. That must have stung. Poor Mama.
But she would not feel guilty that she was better, and no longer in a state of childlike dependency. She knew that it had been her mother’s dearest wish that she should be restored to full health, and if the steps that she was taking to set the seal on her recovery were not quite what her mother would have liked – and they most certainly were not – well, she would never know it. She would be home at Harrogate soon and set about making amends as best she could. It was not as though there would be any shortage of time for them to regain their former closeness. It wasn’t a particularly cheerful thought, but it was a necessary one.
Meanwhile… The door opened silently and with infinite slowness, and Leo, barefoot and clad in a silk dressing gown, slipped into the room and closed the door behind him with equal care. He had no candle; he must know the Castle well enough not to need one. She felt ridiculously shy suddenly and wishedthat she had not thought to lie in bed, like a bride waiting for her husband on her wedding night. Not that her wedding night had played out that way, they had both been so eager… But she would not think of that. Not tonight of all nights.
20
NUMBER EIGHT (A) AND NUMBER NINE
The whole situation at the Castle wasn’t as awkward as Leo had feared. It might be difficult later, of course, but he couldn’t think of that right now. No man could be expected to think of potentially embarrassing scenes with his mother, or any other relative for that matter, when faced with the prospect of number eight, or what he assumed must be number eight.
Isabella was so beautiful. She always was, but never more so than now, in the thinnest of muslin nightgowns through which her skin showed warm. It was held up by thin straps, and they were slipping from her shoulders. Her hair was down but not yet unbraided, and lay in heavy honey-gold plaits across her breasts. Her face showed a consciousness of the significance of what they were about to do, but her brown eyes were determined. She was so brave. She took his breath away. She said, ‘I remembered what you told me once, about how you’d like to unfasten my hair, so I left it like this for you. In case you’d like to.’
‘You added it to the list?’
‘I did. It’s eight (a), in fact.’
He couldn’t speak. But his limbs and his fingers still worked, apparently. He sat down beside her on the soft bed and began toundo her hair, as he had dreamed of doing the first time he met her, and so often since. She’d removed whatever ribbons usually tied off the ends of each plait – she thought of everything – so all he had to do was unfasten each one and comb his fingers through it with care, and spread it across her bare shoulders. When he was done, she looked quite different. More distinctly herself, somehow, her private self, and therefore even more alluring. He gathered up a great hank of her hair and buried his face in its silky, fragrant mass, feeling her hand come out and stroke his head very gently. They stayed like that in silence for a long moment, and then he raised his head to whisper, ‘I’d very much like to see you naked. You know I never have. May I?’
‘Undress me,’ she responded without hesitation. ‘You said, I think, that you wanted to see me with my hair loose about my shoulders, but I thought at the time that you weren’t being quite honest. Was I right?’
‘Yes,’ he said, his fingers already busy with the convenient ties that fastened the wispy garment. ‘Of course you were. I could hardly say I wanted to see your breasts. People don’t say things like that. Or I don’t.’
‘You just said you wanted to see me naked,’ she pointed out, her voice not quite steady as he stripped her.
He checked for a second. ‘So I did. Perhaps I’m changing, growing bolder. I suppose I must be. Well then – I want to see your glorious breasts, concealed by your beautiful hair. I want to uncover them and kiss them. Find them beneath their lovely covering, and feast on them. I’ve always wanted that, even before… anything.’
‘Really?’ Her night-rail was gone, pushed down, forgotten, and she shook out her hair to cover herself; it was almost waist-length, just as he had imagined.
‘Yes,’ he said, and hoped she would not ask any more. He didn’t want to have to discuss his feelings for her; not how he’dfelt before he knew her at all, and certainly not how he felt now. ‘I want to see you naked and magnificent in this bed. It’s been an exquisite torture to me, seeing tantalising glimpses of you partially undressed. I want everything.’
She smiled at him. ‘So do I. I want to see you naked too. You’ve seen a great deal of me, one way and the other, you know, and I’ve seen very little of you.’
‘You’re serious?’ He knew she was always honest, but he had to ask.
‘Of course I am. Strip, sir.’
‘I’m very hairy, you know.’
‘I realise that. I like it. Strip.’
His dressing gown was gone in a second. He wasn’t wearing anything under it. She was lying back against the pillows, cloaked in her glorious, dishevelled tresses, and he was kneeling beside her. He wanted to drink in the sight of her, small waist, lush thighs, rounded belly, but she was distracting him with her demands on him. Wonderfully distracting him. And after all, why should it just be about him looking at her? She wasn’t a painting in a frame, a naked goddess put there for his titillation. She was real. She reached out and placed one hand on his bare thigh, stroking the downy golden hair. He didn’t care to imagine what picture he presented to her gaze: naked, hirsute, powerfully erect already, displaying himself at her command. If women chose the paintings, would that be the sort of thing they’d choose to look at? He could hardly believe it could be so, but… Her fingertips trailed slowly, appreciatively, he thought, down towards his knee, and then up again, and a jolt of pure arousal shot through him. ‘They called me Bear, at school,’ he volunteered. They had, and worse things.
‘I want to bury my face in it,’ she said dreamily. ‘Can I call you Bear too – would you mind? Tell me if you’d mind.’
‘I’d like that. No one uses it now. A private name… No one must ever know, though, for it reveals so much.’
‘Bear,’ she said, naming him, running her hand up his abdomen to his chest, and then down again. And then he was on top of her – once again he couldn’t have said whether he’d tumbled her back or she’d pulled him forward – and his face was buried in her hair, blindly seeking her breast through the silken locks. His mouth found her engorged nipple and seized on it, his hands were… everywhere. Hers too. Exploring his back, moving down and caressing his buttocks, pulling him to her, owning him. It was even more wonderful than he’d imagined it being, and he lost himself in it for a long time.
A glorious while later he found himself kissing his way up her neck to her mouth – it seemed like years since he’d kissed her – but when he reached her he suddenly became aware that he was crushing her into the soft mattress, and probably his damnably excessive hair was…
‘Am I hurting you?’ he gasped against her cheek. ‘My weight, my hair rubbing you – are you uncomfortable? Please tell me.’
‘No,’ she said breathlessly. ‘No, I like it, all of it. Your weight on me, your strength – and as for your hair, my God, push your thigh between mine and I will clasp it to me tightly and rub myself against it and you shall see how much I will like it.’ No one had ever said such things to him before, and he had not even dreamed anyone might; she continued to astonish him.
She took his leg between her soft thighs, as they kissed fiercely and explored each other with eager hands, and he didn’t think he’d ever known anything as raw and animalistic and perfect as her pleasuring herself shamelessly against him. It was not long before she growled in his ear, ‘Now, please, now!’
‘How?’ he asked her. He could never forget that she was in control; he needed her to be. ‘How shall it be, my queen?’
