The Courtship - Catherine Coulter [75]
Lord Beecham eventually sent Nettle down to the taproom to buy himself some ale, telling him that three mugs was all Miss Helen would allow to be poured down any one male gullet. “Drown all your feelings about Teeny,” he called after his valet. “Well, at least get them wet.”
Then Helen stood in the open doorway of his bedchamber, hands on hips, and said, “Now what?”
“You are my partner,” Lord Beecham said, and then he said it again: “You are my partner.” He walked to her, closed the door, and locked it. “Helen,” he said and locked his arms under her hips and carried her to the big bed in the middle of the room. A warm breeze fluttered the light curtains over the windows. There were few sounds now, for it was dinnertime, and most people were at home in front of their own hearths.
And he was here, with Helen, and she was on her back and he was over her, kissing her, pulling the pins out of her beautiful hair, kissing her more, her nose, her earlobe, her chin. “My God, I’ve missed you,” he managed to say between kisses. “Your breasts. I’ve never seen your breasts. I saw them in the cottage when I got you out of all your wet clothes, but I didn’t really look. I touched your breasts once, but not like I want to. I have imagined your breasts, imagined kissing them and caressing them, my hands, my mouth—oh, God, Helen.” He reared up, standing beside the bed over her. “Your riding skirt, Helen, your damned riding skirt. Then there’s the rest of all those bloody clothes you women insist upon wearing to slow men down to the point of near expiration.” He got her out of her riding skirt in just about thirty seconds, then realized that he was still dressed, all the way down to his Hessians.
“I want to do it right!” he yelled to the bedchamber ceiling, but he simply couldn’t wait, just couldn’t. He fell on her, yanked up her chemise, and left her boots and stockings on. He opened his britches and yelled when he drove into her. Helen screamed.
For the briefest instant, he believed he had hurt her. He managed to raise himself on his elbows, to see her eyes closed, her lips parted. She was breathing hard, her hands jerking at him, and she was twisting beneath him, so frantic that she nearly bucked him off her.
He watched her pleasure flood through her, watched her eyes open. She stared up at him in astonishment, then he was with her, so beside himself that he knew the end had to be near. A man simply could not bear this sort of thing. He moaned into her mouth, then his mouth was trying to keep kissing hers, but his lips were numb. He was gone. He collapsed.
“I continue not to believe this,” he said, his voice deep and rough, when breath and brain finally returned to his body. He rolled onto his side, bringing her with him. Their boots tangled together. He smiled at her, kissed the tip of her nose. He was still inside her, just barely, but still a part of her. He knew he had to leave her now, this instant, or it would begin again, and he didn’t want it to. He couldn’t allow it to, or his once-firm resolve, now hanging by a single stingy thread, would melt like candle wax touched to flame.
He closed his eyes, and slowly, so slowly it was near to killing him, he pulled out of her. She fell over onto her back again. She opened her eyes when the bed gave. He was standing there by the bed, his britches open, his hair standing on end where she had pulled it and stroked it and streaked her fingers through it, mad with wanting him. His chest was still heaving as if he had just run a very long race.
He looked immensely beautiful.
She watched him fasten his britches. She watched him straighten his clothing. She watched him walk to the window and stare out of