The Heir - Catherine Coulter [52]
He was looking at her breasts, saying quietly, more to himself than to her, “I knew you would be beautiful. I knew your flesh would be as white as virgin snow. I pictured you so many times lying on your back like this with all that white flesh and your incredible black hair falling in tangles over your shoulders. I knew I wouldn’t be disappointed in your body and I’m not. I don’t want to desire you, indeed my own lust sickens me, but I will take you. God forgive me, I want to take you, now. I must do it. This damnable marriage must be consummated.”
He was looking at her breasts again. She couldn’t stop their deep up and down motion. Dear God, this could not be happening to her.
“You asked me why I call you a slut, why I am treating you like this? You want to know why I’m not treating you like my sweet little virgin bride? I detest your damned lies, your protestations of innocence. Damn you, Arabella, you betrayed me. You took that damnable little French bastard as your lover, and for that, you bitch, you will pay dearly.” His hand touched her breast. She bowed off the bed, screaming. He slammed his palm over her mouth. “Surely that does not surprise you or shock you.” He lifted his hand off her. “No, I don’t believe I could bear seeing you play the whore. If I continued touching you, caressing you, you would begin to moan and cry out, would you not? No, I will get it done. As I said, there will be little enough pleasure for me and none at all for you. At least with me there will be no pleasure for you, damn you.”
Abruptly he stood back from the bed and untied his dressing gown. He shrugged it from his shoulders. He stood naked before her, carefully watching her face. There was an ugly sneer on his mouth.
Arabella stared at him. She had never before seen a naked man. By God, he was beautiful, all hard planes and hollows and corded muscles. There was no fat on him, just lean hardness. She realized she was staring, and sucked in her breath. He’d called her a whore, he’d accused her of taking the comte for her lover? That was mad, simply mad. He had talked about not touching her and had told her that he wouldn’t. She looked at the thick black hair at his groin, at his sex, hard and ready. Oh yes, she’d seen horses mate and knew very well what that meant. Surely he was too big for her. Surely he wouldn’t force her. Oh God, she hated herself, her own weakness, her fear, but still, she said, “Justin, please, what do you intend to do? You are very big. I don’t think this will work.” He looked like he would spit on her. Her rage became whole and full. “Damn you, I am a virgin! I took no lover, not even that miserable little French bastard! Who lied to you? Did Gervaise? Tell me, damn you, who told you this?” She frantically pressed her legs tightly together and brought her hands up to cover her breasts.
“Dear God, what an actress you would have made.” He stretched, and again, she stared at him. He laughed, an ugly hoarse laugh that scared her to her toes. “You may believe me that your body will easily take my sex. Oh yes, I would wish that you cease your fiction, your damnable lies. You want to know who lied about you? I will tell you. No one told me lies about you. I saw him, I saw you, the both of you coming out of the barn, just moments apart. It was obvious what you had done.”
His breathing was so harsh now she could barely make out his words. “Perhaps I should give you pleasure. The only thing is that you might not shout out my name when you take your release. That would be a blow to me, wouldn’t it? No, I will simply get it over with. Yell and scream and curse as you like. It will make no difference.”
She could only stare at him and mutely shake her head back and forth. He’d seen her with the comte? Coming out of the barn? But it was impossible.
He leaned over her, wrenched her legs apart, and straddled her. She began a silent struggle, scratching at his face, kicking up at his groin with