“I am afraid,” he said, “that I will be inadequate.”
Did he mean impotent? Did he fear that?
“I am afraid I will disappoint you,” he said.
She stepped back from him and smiled as she went to fetch the lamp.
“Come upstairs,” she said. “Even if you do no more than hold me, I will not be disappointed. One of my loveliest recent memories is of waking at that inn where we were forced to share a room to find you holding me against you, one arm about me. It was so very long before that since anyone had so much as touched me—except you, when you kissed me at Bramble Hall.”
Tramp padded off to the bed Mrs. Price had made him in a corner of the kitchen, next to the stove and his water bowl, and Samantha led the way upstairs, holding the lamp aloft so that he could see his way. She closed the curtains in her bedchamber and watched him remove his coat and waistcoat and neckcloth. She watched him pull off his shirt to reveal his muscled, suntanned, scarred chest. Only then did she move toward the dressing table.
“Allow me,” he said, and he crossed the room, propped his canes against the side of the dressing table, sat on the bench, spread his legs wide, and drew her down to sit between them, her back against his chest.
His fingers worked at her hair, and she tipped her head downward, watching his hand as it came forward to deposit pins until her hair fell about her shoulders. He took up her brush and began to draw it through the curls Gladys had so carefully created.
“Two hundred strokes?” he asked, his voice low against her ear.
She shivered slightly. “One hundred will do.”
“In a rush, are you?” he asked.
“No.” She sighed and closed her eyes. “Time does not exist. I do not want it to exist.”
“Then it does not,” he said and drew the brush through her hair until she could feel that all the tangles had gone—and all the curls too.
She did not count, but after a while he tossed the brush back onto the dressing table and undid the clasp of her pearls. He unclipped her earrings. And his fingers worked down the line of fasteners at the back of her dress until he could fold back the edges and set his lips against her shoulder blades, one at a time. She was holding the dress against her bosom, but he reached around and removed her hands and drew the dress down over her arms, and down over her br**sts until she was bare above her shift and her stays.
His hands cupped her br**sts, pushed high by her stays. His fingers were warm as they played lightly over her flesh until she could feel a stabbing of sensation down through her womb and along her inner thighs. He caught her ni**les between a finger and thumb of each hand and rolled them before rubbing his thumbs over the tips. She pressed her head back against his shoulder and opened her eyes—and met his gaze in the glass in the flickering light of the lamp.
She could, she realized, watch what he did, as he was doing it.
Oh, dear God.
She spread her hands over his clad thighs on either side of her body, but lightly lest she hurt him.
And he unlaced her stays and stood her up in front of him and stripped her clothes down her body until they were pooled at her feet. Then he drew her down to sit in front of him again.
She was still wearing her silk stockings and her pink garters, she thought as she watched his hands move over her—and felt them too. Her arms and shoulders and a deep half circle above her br**sts were bronzed from this afternoon’s exposure to the sun. The rest of her was pale in comparison. His hands too were bronzed.
He had been celibate as long as she. But he obviously knew a great deal more than she ever had. And, as with swimming, it seemed it was not something he had forgotten. He knew just where to touch her, and just how—with his palms, with his fingers, fingertips, and thumbs, with his fingernails. And finally the fingers of one hand slid lightly through the triangle of hair at the apex of her thighs, and pushed downward and inward, cupping her heat, pressing into her most private place, lightly probing and stroking there. His thumb circled lightly a little higher until she felt such a raw ache of longing that she cried out and shuddered against him and would have doubled over if his free arm had not held her firmly back against his chest.
“Oh.” She was panting for breath. She felt hot and damp and suddenly drained of energy in a thoroughly pleasurable way. “I am so sorry.”
His laughter and his voice were low against her ear. “Sorry? I certainly hope not.”
And she knew that she was the merest novice, that he had made love to her with his hand and given her that exquisite pleasure quite deliberately with the skill of his fingers.
“But I am not able to give you any pleasure,” she protested.
“Are you sure?” He laughed against her ear again, and she looked at him in the mirror and saw his eyes, heavy with … what? Desire? Passion? Sheer enjoyment?
He was, she thought, incredibly handsome.
“You are almost fully clothed,” she complained.
“That can be remedied.” He stood her up again and reached for his canes. “Lie down on the bed.”
She turned back the covers, sat on the edge of the mattress, and removed her stockings while he watched. She had never been naked with a man before. She did not feel self-conscious, though. Perhaps it was because the lamplight was soft and flattering. Or perhaps it was because of that look in his eyes. Or because he had made love to her with his hand and she was still warm with pleasure.
She lay down and watched him seat himself at the bottom of the bed and pull off his boots and stockings. Poor man, it was the second time in one day he had had to do that without the aid of his valet, and it very evidently was not easy.