Pressing her back on the bed, Harry loomed over her. He heard her breathing quicken as he settled between her thighs. But he didn’t try to enter her, only let her feel the pressure of him, the length fitting against the soft feminine rise. He knew how to tease, how to make her want him. He moved in the gentlest intimation of a thrust, sliding along dampness and sweetly vulnerable flesh, and then he rotated his h*ps slowly, every movement a syllable that added to a greater meaning.
Her lashes half lowered, and there was a faint, intent pull between her fine brows . . . she wanted what he was giving her, she wanted the tension and torment and relief. Desire had brought a mist of perspiration over her skin, until the scent of roses deepened and acquired a hint of musk, so wildly arousing and heady that he could have let himself go right then. But he rolled to his side, away from the enticing cradle of her hips.
He slid his hand over her mound and slipped his fingers inside her again, his touch coaxing and careful. This time her body relaxed and welcomed him. Kissing her throat, he caught the vibration of every moan against his lips. A faint, rhythmic clenching began around his knuckles as he thrust his fingers in her oh so gently. Every time she took them to the hilt, he let the heel of his hand brush her intimately. She panted and began to lift upward repeatedly.
“Yes,” Harry whispered, letting his hot breath fill the shell of her ear. “Yes. When I’m inside you, this is how you move. Show me what you want, and I’ll give it to you, as much as you need, as long as you want . . .”
She clamped on his fingers, tightening, convulsing, coming in erotic shivers. He teased out every last luscious ripple, relishing her cl**ax, lost in the feel of her.
Levering his body over hers, he pushed her thighs wide and lowered himself between them. Before her sated flesh had begun to close, he centered himself where she was wet and ready for him. He stopped thinking altogether. He pushed into the resisting ring, finding it even more difficult than he’d expected despite the abundant moisture.
Poppy whimpered in pained surprise, her body stiffening.
“Hold onto me,” Harry said hoarsely. She obeyed, her arms coming around his neck. He reached down and pulled her h*ps upward, trying to make it easier for her as he pressed deeper, harder, her flesh unbelievably tight and hot and sweet, and he gave her more, unable to help himself, until he was fully buried in the soft heat of her.
“Oh, God,” he whispered, shaking with the effort to hold still, to let her adjust around him.
Every nerve clamored for movement, for the sliding, teasing friction that would bring him release. He nudged gently. But Poppy grimaced, her legs straining on either side of his. He waited longer, caressing her with his hands.
“Don’t stop,” she choked. “It’s all right.”
But it wasn’t. He pushed again, and a pained sound escaped her. Again, and she braced and clenched her teeth. Every time he moved, it caused her agony.
Resisting her tight grip on his neck, Harry drew back far enough to look at her face. Poppy was white with distress, her lips bloodless. Holy hell, was it this painful for all virgins?
“I’ll wait,” he said raggedly. “It will be easier in a moment.”
She nodded, her mouth stiff, her eyes tightly shut.
And they both held still and fast, while he tried to soothe her. But nothing changed. Despite Poppy’s compliance, this was sheer misery for her.
Harry buried his face in her hair and cursed. And he withdrew, despite the vicious protest of his loins, when every impulse screamed for him to hammer into her.
She couldn’t stifle a gasp of relief as the painful intrusion was removed. Hearing the sound, Harry nearly exploded with murderous frustration.
He heard her murmur his name, her voice questioning.
Ignoring her, Harry left the bed and staggered toward the bathing room. He braced his hands on the tiled wall and closed his eyes, struggling for self-control. After a few minutes, he drew water and washed himself. He found smears of blood . . . Poppy’s blood. That was only to be expected. But the sight of it made him want to howl.
Because the last thing he wanted on earth was to cause his wife even a moment’s pain. He would die before hurting her, no matter what the consequences to himself.
Dear God, what had happened to him? He had never wanted to feel this way about anyone, never even imagined it possible.
He had to make it stop.
Sore and bewildered, Poppy lay on her side and listened to the sounds of Harry washing. It burned where he had taken her. The residue of blood was sticky between her thighs. She wanted to leave the bed and wash as well, but the thought of performing such an intimate task in front of Harry . . . no, she wasn’t ready for that yet. And she was unsure, because even in her innocence, she knew that he had not finished making love to her.
But why?
Had there been something she should have done?
Had she made some kind of mistake? Perhaps she should have been more stoic. She had tried her best, but it had hurt dreadfully, even though Harry had been gentle. Surely he knew that it was painful for a virgin the first time. Why, then, had he seemed angry with her?
Feeling inadequate and defensive, Poppy crept from the bed and found her nightgown. She put it on and hastily retreated beneath the covers as Harry came back into the room. Without a word, he picked up his discarded clothes and began to dress.
“You’re going out?” she heard herself ask.
Harry didn’t look at her. “Yes.”
“Stay with me,” she blurted out.
Harry shook his head. “I can’t. We’ll talk later. But right now I—” He broke off as if words failed him.
Poppy curled on her side, gripping the edges of the bedclothes. Something was terribly wrong—she couldn’t fathom what it was, and she was too afraid to ask.
Pulling on his coat, Harry started for the doorway.
“Where are you going?” Poppy asked unsteadily.
He sounded distant. “I don’t know.”
“When will you—”
“I don’t know that, either.”
She waited until he had left before she let a few tears slip out, and she blotted them with the sheet. Was Harry going to another woman?
Miserably, she reflected that her sister Win’s advice about marital relations had been insufficient. There should have been a bit less about roses and moonlight and a bit more practical information.
She wanted to see her sisters, especially Amelia. She wanted her family, who would pet and praise and make much of her, and offer the reassurance she badly needed. It was more than a little disheartening to have failed at marriage after a mere three weeks.
Most of all, she needed advice about husbands.
Yes, it was time to retreat and consider what to do. She would go to Hampshire.
A hot bath soothed her smarting flesh and eased the strained muscles on the insides of her thighs. After drying and powdering herself, she dressed in a wine-colored traveling gown. She packed a few belongings in a small valise, including undergarments and stockings, a silver-backed brush, a novel, and an automaton that Harry had made—a little woodpecker on a tree trunk—which she usually kept on her dressing table. However, she left the diamond necklace that Harry had given her, setting the velvet-lined case in a drawer.
When she was ready to depart, she rang the bellpull and sent a maid to fetch Jake Valentine.
The tall, brown-eyed young man appeared in an instant, making no effort to mask his concern. His gaze skimmed quickly over her traveling clothes. “May I be of service, Mrs. Rutledge?”
“Mr. Valentine, has my husband left the hotel?”
He nodded, a frown puckering his forehead.
“Did he tell you when he would return?”
“No, ma’am.”
Poppy wondered if she could trust him. His loyalty to Harry was well-known. However, she had no choice but to ask for his help. “I must ask a favor of you, Mr. Valentine. However, I fear it may put you in a difficult position.”
His brown eyes warmed with rueful amusement. “Mrs. Rutledge, I’m nearly always in a difficult position. Please don’t hesitate to ask me for anything.”
She squared her shoulders. “I need a carriage. I’m going to visit my brother at his terrace in Mayfair.”
The smile vanished from his eyes. He glanced at the valise by her feet. “I see.”
“I am very sorry to ask you to ignore your obligations to my husband but . . . I would prefer you didn’t let him know where I’ve gone until morning. I will be perfectly safe in my brother’s company. He is going to convey me to my family in Hampshire.”
“I understand. Of course I will help you.” Valentine paused, appearing to choose his words carefully. “I hope you will be returning soon.”
“So do I.”
“Mrs. Rutledge . . .” he started, and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I shouldn’t overstep my bounds. But I feel it necessary to say—” He hesitated.
“Go on,” Poppy said gently.
“I’ve worked for Mr. Rutledge for more than five years. I daresay I know him as well as anyone. He’s a complicated man . . . too smart for his own good, and he doesn’t have much in the way of scruples, and he forces everyone around him to live by his terms. But he has changed many lives for the better. Including mine. And I believe there’s good in him, if one looks deep enough.”
“I think so, too,” Poppy said. “But that’s not enough to found a marriage on.”
“You mean something to him,” Valentine insisted. “He’s formed an attachment to you, and I’ve never seen that before. Which is why I don’t think anyone in the world can manage him except for you.”
“Even if that’s true,” Poppy managed to say, “I don’t know if I want to manage him.”
“Ma’am . . .” Valentine said feelingly, “Someone has to.”
Amusement broke through Poppy’s distress, and she ducked her head to hide a smile. “I’ll consider it,” she said. “But at the moment I need some time away. What do they call it in the rope ring . . . ?”
“A breather,” he said, bending to pick up her valise.
“Yes, a breather. Will you help me, Mr. Valentine?”
“Of course.” Valentine bid her to wait but a few minutes, and went to summon the carriage. Comprehending the need for discretion, he had the vehicle brought to the back of the hotel, where Poppy could depart unobserved.
She felt a pang of regret, leaving the Rutledge and its employees. In no time at all it had become home . . . but things could not stay the way they were. Something would have to yield. And that something—or someone, rather—was Harry Rutledge.
Valentine returned to escort her to the back entrance. Opening an umbrella to shelter her from the rain, Valentine guided her outside to the waiting vehicle.
Poppy climbed onto the block step that had been placed beside the carriage, and turned to face the valet. With the added height of the step, they stood nearly eye to eye. Raindrops glittered in the light from the hotel as they fell in jewel-like strands from the points of the umbrella.
“Mr. Valentine . . .”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“You do think he’ll follow me, don’t you?”
“Only to the ends of the earth,” he said gravely.
That drew a smile from her, and she turned to climb into the carriage.
Chapter Nineteen
It had taken Mrs. Meredith Clifton three months of dedicated pursuit before she had finally seduced Leo, Lord Ramsay. Or more accurately, was about to seduce him. As the young and nubile wife of a distinguished British naval officer, she was frequently left to her own devices while her husband was off at sea. Meredith had bedded every man in London worth bedding—excluding the handful of tiresomely faithful married ones, of course—but then she had heard about Ramsay, a man reputedly as sexually audacious as herself.
Leo was a man of tantalizing contradictions. He was a handsome man, dark haired and blue eyed, with a clean and wholesome appeal . . . and yet he was rumored to be capable of shocking debauchery. He was cruel but gentle, callous but perceptive, selfish but charming. And from what she had heard, he was a vastly accomplished lover.
Now, in Leo’s bedroom, Meredith stood quietly while he undressed her. He took his time about unfastening the row of buttons at her back. Sidling back, she let the backs of her fingers brush his trousers. The feel of him caused her to purr.
She heard Leo laugh, and he pushed her exploring hand away. “Patience, Meredith.”
“You can’t know how much I’ve anticipated this night.”
“That’s a shame. I’m terrible in bed.” Gently he spread her dress open.
She shivered as she felt the exploratory stroke of his fingertips on her upper back. “You’re teasing, my lord.”
“You’ll find out soon, won’t you?” He brushed aside the wisps of hair at her nape and kissed her there, letting his tongue brush her skin.
That light, erotic touch caused Meredith to gasp. “Are you ever serious about anything?” she managed to ask.
“No. I’ve found that life is far kinder to shallow people.” Turning her, Leo drew her up against his tall, well-muscled frame.
And in one long, slow blaze of a kiss, Meredith realized that she had finally met a predator more seductive, less inhibited, than anyone she had ever met. His sensual power was no less potent for being completely devoid of emotion or tenderness. This was pure, unashamed physicality.
Consumed in the kiss, Meredith gave an agitated little cry when he stopped.
“The door,” Leo said.
Another tentative knock.
“Ignore it,” Meredith said, trying to slide her arms around his lean waist.
“I can’t. My servants won’t let me ignore them. Believe me, I’ve tried.” Releasing her, Leo went to the door, opened it a crack, and said curtly, “There had better be a fire or a felony in progress, or I swear you’ll be sacked.”
Another murmur from the servant, and Leo’s tone changed, the arrogant drawl vanishing. “Good God. Tell her I’ll be down at once. Get her some tea or something.” Raking his hand through the short dark brown layers of his hair, he went to a wardrobe and began to hunt through a row of jackets. “I’m afraid you’ll have to ring for a maid to help you dress, Meredith. When you’re ready, my servants will make certain you’re escorted out to your carriage at the back.”
Her mouth fell open. “What? Why?”
“My sister has arrived unexpectedly.” Pausing in his search, Leo threw an apologetic glance over his shoulder. “Another time, perhaps?”