surprisingly fervent supporter.
The two sets of parents had been rather awkward with each other, but to Flora’s relief her brother Robbie had dashingly stepped into the breach. Charming, and as ever the life and soul of the party, Robbie had abandoned his elegant girlfriend, Annabel, to dance several reels with Mrs Cassell before persuading Geraint’s father to down a few wee drams of the laird’s oldest and finest malt.
‘What on earth did you two find so fascinating to talk about? You were chatting away for hours,’ Flora asked him at the end of the evening, but Robbie merely grinned.
‘Wouldn’t you like to know,’ he said, enveloping her in a bear hug. ‘I’ve never seen you look so happy, sis. Don’t worry about the new in-laws, I’ll take good care of them.’
True to his word, Robbie and Annabel remained with Geraint’s parents until they left to spend the night at the drover’s inn in the village, having politely but firmly refused the laird’s offer to join him and his wife at Colonel Patterson’s stately pile. ‘We’ll be more comfortable in the pub,’ the senior Mr Cassell had said.
‘Not too comfortable, mind,’ his wife had retorted. ‘We’ve a long journey back to Wales in the morning.’
In the morning, Robbie and Annabel would return to London. In the morning, Geraint would be going back to camp. In the morning, Flora herself would be packing to go to France. In the morning, she would be alone. A bride of less than a day. She didn’t want to think about the morning.
The lamp cast long shadows on the faded wallpaper. She was nervous as she removed her cape and gloves. One night was all they had together. Geraint had been unable to persuade his CO to grant him more. They both knew it was because he had orders to mobilise, though neither of them had alluded to it.
‘We’ll manage, my darling, because we have to,’ Geraint said, as if he had read her mind, which she supposed was not so very difficult.
‘When I am in France, perhaps it might be possible for us to see each other.’
‘Perhaps, but let’s not talk of France or the war just now,’ Geraint said. ‘I love you.’
‘I know.’
‘Yes, but you don’t know how much.’ He smiled at her, a wicked smile she had not seen before. ‘Come here, Mrs Cassell. Let me show you.’
He kissed her slowly, as if they had all the time in the world. He kissed her brow and her cheeks and her neck as he pulled the pins from her hair. Then he kissed her mouth, lingeringly, lovingly. He kissed her throat and her shoulders as he undid the fastenings of the Poiret evening gown she had gone to such lengths to acquire. The soft folds of the gauzy overdress were fashioned in the Roman style, worn over a heavy lace underdress that made the most of her tall, slim frame. The gown fell to the floor and pooled at her feet. Geraint led her to the bed and removed her silk slippers. He kissed the soft skin at the top of her stockings, the back of her knee, her calf, the fluttering pulse at her ankle.
She watched, her pulse racing, as he hastily removed his own clothes, casting them carelessly onto the floor beside her own discarded gown. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. Long, lean legs. Her breathing quickened. She had never seen a naked man before. She could not tear her eyes from the sleek arc of his erection.
He pulled her from the bed and kissed her again. He was hard, hot against her belly. He undid the ribbons that held her camisole in place and kissed the valley between her breasts. She wriggled free of her silk knickers, the last scrap of her clothing. He was breathing heavily. He bent his head to take one of her nipples in her mouth. Low inside her, the thrumming started. He took her hand and curled it around him, showing her how to stroke him, and slid his fingers inside her, stroking, slowly, to the same rhythm. She began to quiver with the pulsing inside her. He laid her on the bed, parted her legs and put his mouth
The two sets of parents had been rather awkward with each other, but to Flora’s relief her brother Robbie had dashingly stepped into the breach. Charming, and as ever the life and soul of the party, Robbie had abandoned his elegant girlfriend, Annabel, to dance several reels with Mrs Cassell before persuading Geraint’s father to down a few wee drams of the laird’s oldest and finest malt.
‘What on earth did you two find so fascinating to talk about? You were chatting away for hours,’ Flora asked him at the end of the evening, but Robbie merely grinned.
‘Wouldn’t you like to know,’ he said, enveloping her in a bear hug. ‘I’ve never seen you look so happy, sis. Don’t worry about the new in-laws, I’ll take good care of them.’
True to his word, Robbie and Annabel remained with Geraint’s parents until they left to spend the night at the drover’s inn in the village, having politely but firmly refused the laird’s offer to join him and his wife at Colonel Patterson’s stately pile. ‘We’ll be more comfortable in the pub,’ the senior Mr Cassell had said.
‘Not too comfortable, mind,’ his wife had retorted. ‘We’ve a long journey back to Wales in the morning.’
In the morning, Robbie and Annabel would return to London. In the morning, Geraint would be going back to camp. In the morning, Flora herself would be packing to go to France. In the morning, she would be alone. A bride of less than a day. She didn’t want to think about the morning.
The lamp cast long shadows on the faded wallpaper. She was nervous as she removed her cape and gloves. One night was all they had together. Geraint had been unable to persuade his CO to grant him more. They both knew it was because he had orders to mobilise, though neither of them had alluded to it.
‘We’ll manage, my darling, because we have to,’ Geraint said, as if he had read her mind, which she supposed was not so very difficult.
‘When I am in France, perhaps it might be possible for us to see each other.’
‘Perhaps, but let’s not talk of France or the war just now,’ Geraint said. ‘I love you.’
‘I know.’
‘Yes, but you don’t know how much.’ He smiled at her, a wicked smile she had not seen before. ‘Come here, Mrs Cassell. Let me show you.’
He kissed her slowly, as if they had all the time in the world. He kissed her brow and her cheeks and her neck as he pulled the pins from her hair. Then he kissed her mouth, lingeringly, lovingly. He kissed her throat and her shoulders as he undid the fastenings of the Poiret evening gown she had gone to such lengths to acquire. The soft folds of the gauzy overdress were fashioned in the Roman style, worn over a heavy lace underdress that made the most of her tall, slim frame. The gown fell to the floor and pooled at her feet. Geraint led her to the bed and removed her silk slippers. He kissed the soft skin at the top of her stockings, the back of her knee, her calf, the fluttering pulse at her ankle.
She watched, her pulse racing, as he hastily removed his own clothes, casting them carelessly onto the floor beside her own discarded gown. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. Long, lean legs. Her breathing quickened. She had never seen a naked man before. She could not tear her eyes from the sleek arc of his erection.
He pulled her from the bed and kissed her again. He was hard, hot against her belly. He undid the ribbons that held her camisole in place and kissed the valley between her breasts. She wriggled free of her silk knickers, the last scrap of her clothing. He was breathing heavily. He bent his head to take one of her nipples in her mouth. Low inside her, the thrumming started. He took her hand and curled it around him, showing her how to stroke him, and slid his fingers inside her, stroking, slowly, to the same rhythm. She began to quiver with the pulsing inside her. He laid her on the bed, parted her legs and put his mouth
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