had to guess, waiting for the other to speak.
He did so first, lifting up to brace himself on his elbows, his expression serious. “I wish to offer an apology.” His fingertips brushed her hair back from her cheek. “I was wrong about this evening. The moment you walked in the door, I saw how much you despised being there, and now I think I see more clearly why. Not because I don’t believe that it wouldn’t be best to brave society once again to show you have nothing to hide, but because it comes at too great a cost to you.”
It was odd, but though it had hardly been an enjoyable evening, she had a different reaction than anticipated to what had happened. She gazed up at him, comfortable, sated, pressed to the soft mattress by his balanced weight, their bodies still joined. “I don’t know. At first I wanted no part of what you suggested, but though I didn’t enjoy the humiliation of all those malicious glances and backhanded whispers, maybe you are right. I have been keeping myself apart because it is easier than enduring society’s censure. It seemed logical . . . It is not easy to know people think so ill of you. However, Lady Heathton certainly was more than friendly, and I know Eve will be, and I have a few other—though not many—friends who will support me if I choose to be part of the season next year. What I am saying is that upon contemplation, I think rejoining society now, when the whirl has all but died down, was not such a terrible idea after all.”
Those oh-so-blue eyes were intent. “I don’t want you to do this for me.”
“Partially for you,” she admitted, “but also for myself. I don’t know that I wish to return to the ranks of the aristocracy as a respectable woman as much as I want to make sure our future, and that of any children we may have, is safe from ugly gossip.”
Children. She hadn’t conceived with either of her husbands, but then again, she hadn’t been married all that long to either one of them.
She’d known Christopher long enough to fall deeply in love, to wish to share his life, to know he was the man who could give her everything she ever dreamed of . . .
And it terrified her.
* * *
Reluctantly, Christopher eased free from Angelina’s lissome body, his heartbeat finally starting to slow to a normal pace. Superimposed against the pale blue coverlet—he hadn’t even bothered to sweep it back before he so impetuously took her—she was pure female beauty, her skin flushed from orgasmic release, her ebony hair tumbled around her pale shoulders, her lips parted and damp from his attentions. Her full breasts still lifted rapidly with each quick breath, the succulent flesh tipped by perfect rose nipples, and later, when they were both ready again, he planned on tasting his fill, sucking them to high points, and maybe even tasting the essence of her desire between her legs as he brought her to climax with his lips and tongue, but for now, they needed to talk.
Lifting to one elbow, he touched her shoulder, just a brush, almost tentative, and he was not a tentative man. “I’ve wondered what will happen if you become pregnant. I am not deliberately trying to take the course of forcing your hand, Angelina; you know I wouldn’t. But while there are measures a man can take to prevent conception, I have not used any of them. I’ve instead left it in the hands of God or fate, whichever is in charge of our destinies, at this point.”
They hadn’t discussed it before—he was afraid to bring up such a potentially volatile subject and she hadn’t mentioned it either before now. Her silver eyes gazed at him in open inquiry and her smooth forehead wrinkled. “What measures?”
At least he’d distracted her from the unpleasantness of her arrival at the Greggston affair. He could still feel the surge of anger over the sudden stillness of the room as she stood there poised in the entrance, so lovely that not a man in attendance wasn’t moved, and at a
He did so first, lifting up to brace himself on his elbows, his expression serious. “I wish to offer an apology.” His fingertips brushed her hair back from her cheek. “I was wrong about this evening. The moment you walked in the door, I saw how much you despised being there, and now I think I see more clearly why. Not because I don’t believe that it wouldn’t be best to brave society once again to show you have nothing to hide, but because it comes at too great a cost to you.”
It was odd, but though it had hardly been an enjoyable evening, she had a different reaction than anticipated to what had happened. She gazed up at him, comfortable, sated, pressed to the soft mattress by his balanced weight, their bodies still joined. “I don’t know. At first I wanted no part of what you suggested, but though I didn’t enjoy the humiliation of all those malicious glances and backhanded whispers, maybe you are right. I have been keeping myself apart because it is easier than enduring society’s censure. It seemed logical . . . It is not easy to know people think so ill of you. However, Lady Heathton certainly was more than friendly, and I know Eve will be, and I have a few other—though not many—friends who will support me if I choose to be part of the season next year. What I am saying is that upon contemplation, I think rejoining society now, when the whirl has all but died down, was not such a terrible idea after all.”
Those oh-so-blue eyes were intent. “I don’t want you to do this for me.”
“Partially for you,” she admitted, “but also for myself. I don’t know that I wish to return to the ranks of the aristocracy as a respectable woman as much as I want to make sure our future, and that of any children we may have, is safe from ugly gossip.”
Children. She hadn’t conceived with either of her husbands, but then again, she hadn’t been married all that long to either one of them.
She’d known Christopher long enough to fall deeply in love, to wish to share his life, to know he was the man who could give her everything she ever dreamed of . . .
And it terrified her.
* * *
Reluctantly, Christopher eased free from Angelina’s lissome body, his heartbeat finally starting to slow to a normal pace. Superimposed against the pale blue coverlet—he hadn’t even bothered to sweep it back before he so impetuously took her—she was pure female beauty, her skin flushed from orgasmic release, her ebony hair tumbled around her pale shoulders, her lips parted and damp from his attentions. Her full breasts still lifted rapidly with each quick breath, the succulent flesh tipped by perfect rose nipples, and later, when they were both ready again, he planned on tasting his fill, sucking them to high points, and maybe even tasting the essence of her desire between her legs as he brought her to climax with his lips and tongue, but for now, they needed to talk.
Lifting to one elbow, he touched her shoulder, just a brush, almost tentative, and he was not a tentative man. “I’ve wondered what will happen if you become pregnant. I am not deliberately trying to take the course of forcing your hand, Angelina; you know I wouldn’t. But while there are measures a man can take to prevent conception, I have not used any of them. I’ve instead left it in the hands of God or fate, whichever is in charge of our destinies, at this point.”
They hadn’t discussed it before—he was afraid to bring up such a potentially volatile subject and she hadn’t mentioned it either before now. Her silver eyes gazed at him in open inquiry and her smooth forehead wrinkled. “What measures?”
At least he’d distracted her from the unpleasantness of her arrival at the Greggston affair. He could still feel the surge of anger over the sudden stillness of the room as she stood there poised in the entrance, so lovely that not a man in attendance wasn’t moved, and at a
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