The first girl had been frightened and innocent. Resentful and grateful. And resentful at the need to be grateful. She had spent her wedding day in a polite fog of unreality, her lips fixed in a remote smile. His hand had rested so often proudly, lightly on her elbow. For five thousand pounds he’d bought the rights to touch her whenever he chose.
This man in front of her would have willingly bedded that frightened girl.
The second girl was tempted to slip her hand right into his trousers to hasten being taken quickly. Now.
The second girl was quietly, furiously angry at the possibility that he’dknownsomething about her, about him, about the two of them together, before he’d proposed. That he, with his vision, his gift for seeing the details about people, his superior experience and wisdom and maturity, had somehow known how incendiary, how satisfying, howrightit would feel to be together. And he’d never said a word. Had not trusted her with his thoughts or feelings. He had not asked for hers. He had merely included her in part of a bargain, the way he was buying a house on Grosvenor Square.
Would they be here now if he had said anything? Would they have hurt each other then?
She didn’t know. She didn’t know.
I wanted you in my bed, he’d said to her. She was certain that was as true then as it was now.
She didn’t think that was the whole truth.
For instance, there was a ribbon scrap in a box that suggested otherwise.
But wasn’t it different for men? Didn’t they view sex the way Mr. Delacorte had described potatoes the other night, necessary and delicious, to be consumed hastily whenever available?
What man wouldn’t take advantage of thecircumstances if he was certain a woman wanted him? No doubt it was easy enough for a man to want a woman and still despise her.
Perhaps he’d touched every woman he’d ever made love to that way.
She didn’t really believe so.
He’d likely discovered as he moved closer, ever closer, that she was quivering. Her breathing quickened. But still he didn’t touch her.
“I don’t feel as if I’ve the right to be proud of you, Alexandra.” His voice was graveled. “Or proud because of you. But I am.”
She studied him. It was quite an admission.
“Well, that’s because you’ve impeccable judgment.”
One corner of his mouth quirked.
Touch me.
She was a little worried that thought would escape her mouth in a moment.
It frightened her that she wanted him so much, because every time he touched her she lost a little more of herself to him. Or perhaps, in truth, she gave a little more of herself to him. They were unraveling each other a bit more each time they made love.
And he was going to send her away.
This would be her punishment. It was only fitting. She could imagine even now that tearing sensation in the area of her heart as she left.
Oh, but it would be worth it if only he touched hernow.
No doubt he felt her rib cage jump with thehitch of her breath when he rested his fingertips against her waist.
The moment his lips brushed hers her blood seemed to travel a slow, hot path straight down through the center of her to pulse in that aching place between her legs.
They watched each other like inquisitors.
And her eyes wanted to close; her body, greedily, wanted to isolate itself with sensation.
But she watched him, as he watched her.
She wanted to see if she could ascertain some sort of truth. To discover what, if anything, he would reveal to her when he touched her.
