“We would have known each other better had you not avoided me these past few weeks, and do not cry it was your duty, or deny it. Your actions were deliberate, and I do not understand why,” he replied. “You have agreed to this marriage from the beginning.”
Philippa sighed. “I know,” she said. “I agreed, and then I became afraid. You are nobility, my lord. And I fear that you cannot love me, that it is only the land you seek.”
“If it were practical, Philippa, I should give up Melville to prove to you that it is not just the land. But I need those grazing pastures. Besides, all marriages are arranged for sensible reasons. The emotion called love has little to do with most matches. But we could come to love one another someday, little one. For now, however, we are finally betrothed, and in two days will be wed. Let us become friends. The king has graciously allowed us some time alone. It is a few days’ journey to Brierewode, and I would show you your new home.”
“But we are going to France!” she said. “I would go with the queen, my lord.”
“And so we shall, Philippa. We shall be at Dover on the appointed day. We shall spend the summer in France with the court before returning home to visit your mother, and then wintering at Brierewode.”
“We must join the Christmas revels,” she told him.
“If you are not with child, we will,” he said.
“With child?” Philippa swallowed hard.
“The purpose of our union is children,” he told her gravely. “I need an heir. If you prove to be as good a breeder as your mother I shall sire several sons on you.”
Philippa stopped dead, and then she stamped her foot at him. “Do not speak as if I am some superior breeding stock,” she cried angrily.
“Whether you are superior breeding stock or not remains to be seen,” he replied dryly, his gray eyes suddenly cold.
“You promised me that you would wait,” she said.
“And so I have, for almost a month, while you have gone out of your way to escape my company, Philippa. Not a kiss or a cuddle have I been allowed. But in two nights’ time, little one, you will do your duty because you will be my wife. Do you understand me?”
“You are the most arrogant man I have ever met!” she declared furiously.
He laughed. “I probably am,” he said agreeably. Then he reached out and yanked her into an embrace, wrapping his arms tightly about her. “That mouth of yours, Philippa, would be put to better use in this manner rather than sparring with me.” His head descended, his lips meeting hers in a hungry kiss.
At first her knotted fists beat against the embroidery on his burgundy velvet doublet. The kiss had rendered her weak, and her head was spinning. But she liked it. Oh, yes! She liked it very much. Her mouth softened beneath his, and she sighed. Her fists ceased their tattoo.
He raised his head, looking down at her through silver slits. “You are so ready to be loved, Philippa. Why do you fight it? I will not be unkind to you.”
“I need to know you better before I offer myself body and soul,” she murmured against his mouth.
“You have these two days, little one. There is no more time,” he told her, pulling her into the shelter of a large pruned bush, and drawing her down onto a marble bench. Then he began to kiss her again, and one kiss fed into another until she was certain that her lips would be visibly bruised. His fingers loosened the laces on her bodice. His hand pushed beneath her neckline reaching for, finding, fondling a sweetly rounded breast.
Philippa couldn’t breathe. Her heart was beating furiously. His hand was warm and gentle as he cupped the captive breast. Her head lolled back against his shoulder. His touch was the most exciting thing she had ever experienced. “You mustn’t,” she feebly protested. “We are not wed yet.”
“The betrothal legalizes our union,” he groaned low.
“The queen says a woman must be chaste even in the marriage bed,” Philippa whispered.
“Bugger the queen,” he said, half angrily. “Is it she who is responsible for your reticence these last weeks?”
“My lord!” Philippa was shocked by his words. “The queen is an example of wifely perfection to all of her women.”
“Mayhap that is why the queen has borne no live son,” he responded, and his thumb rubbed the nipple of the breast he was fondling. “Healthy children come from passion, not saintliness, Philippa!”
“I cannot concentrate when you do that, my lord,” she protested.
“You are not meant to, little one,” he said, laughing low. Then he began to kiss her again even as he continued caressing her breast. “You are meant to lose power over your composure, and yield yourself to the delicious feelings coursing through your veins at this moment.” His lips touched her forehead, her cheeks, her throat with heat.
Philippa pulled her head away from him. “Oh, my lord, you must not assault me so sweetly. My head is spinning with your caresses and your kisses. I cannot think! ”
He laughed, and then he smiled at her. “Very well, little one, I will cease momentarily. I suspect from this brief encounter that there is a deep well of unexplored lustful passion within your innocent soul. I shall very much enjoy awakening it, Philippa.” His hand removed itself from her bodice.
“My lord,” she said disapprovingly, “such speech is unseemly in a gentleman. My mistress, the queen, would never approve of the words you so freely use.”
