And he kissed her. Right there, at the base of her spine, in the spot that had tempted him so, he kissed her. And then—he didn’t know why; his experience with women had been limited, but his imagination was clearly making up for that lack—he ran his tongue along that central line, down her spine to the beginning of her cleft, tasting the sweet saltiness of her skin, stopping—but not removing his lips—when she moaned, putting her hands out against the wall to support herself when she could no longer stand.
“Phillip,” she gasped.
He rose and turned her around, leaning down until they were nearly nose to nose. “It was there,” he said helplessly, as if that would explain everything. And in truth, that was all the explanation there was. It was there, that tantalizing little patch of skin, pink and peachy and waiting for a kiss.
Shewas there, and he had to have her.
He kissed her mouth again as he let her gown slide from her body. She’d been married in blue, a pale version of the color that made her eyes look deeper and more tempestuous than ever, rather like a cloudy sky just before a rainstorm.
It was a heavenly dress—he’d heard her sister Daphne say that to her earlier that day. But it was even more heavenly to rid her of it.
She wasn’t wearing a chemise, and he knew that she was bared to him, heard her suck in her breath as the tips of her breasts grazed the fine linen of his shirt. But instead of looking, he ran his hand along the side of her breast, his knuckles lightly nuzzling the side of the swell. Then, as he continued to kiss her, his hand curved around until he was cupping her, feeling the exquisite weight of her in his fingers.
“Phillip,” she moaned, the word sinking into his mouth like a benediction.
He moved his hand again until he covered her, her pert nipple sliding between his fingers. And as he squeezed—gently, reverently—he could, after all, hardly believe this had all come to pass.
And then he couldn’t wait any longer. He had to see her, to see every bit of her and watch her face as he did so. He pulled back, breaking their kiss with a whispered promise that he’d be back.
He sucked in his breath as he gazed down at her. It was not yet dark, and the last vestiges of sunlight still filtered in through the windows, bathing her skin in a red-gold glow. Her breasts were larger than he’d imagined, full and round and plump, and it was all he could do not to sweep her into bed that very moment. He could feast forever on those breasts, love them and worship them until . . .
Dear God, who was he trying to fool? Until his own need grew too intense, and he had to have her, to plunge into her, devour her.
With shaking fingers, he went to work on his own buttons, watching her watching him as he tore the shirt from his body. And then he forgot, and he turned . . .
And she gasped.
He froze.
“What happened?” she whispered.
He didn’t know why he was so surprised by the moment, by the fact that he would have to explain. She was his wife, and she was going to see him naked every day for the rest of his life, and if anyone was going to know the nature of his scars, it would be her.
Hewas able to avoid them, as they were quite out of his sight on his back, but Eloise would not be so lucky.
“I was whipped,” he said, not turning around. He should probably spare her the sight, but she was going to have to get used to it sometime.
“Who did this to you?” Her voice was low and angry, and her outrage warmed his heart.
“My father.” Phillip well remembered the day. He had been twelve, home from school, and his father had forced him to accompany him on a hunt. Phillip was a good horseman, but not good enough for the jump his father had taken ahead of him. He’d tried it, though, knowing he’d be branded a coward if he did not make the attempt.
He’d fallen, of course. Been thrown, really. Miraculously, he’d walked away without injury, but his father had been livid. Thomas Crane possessed a very narrow vision of English manhood, and it did not include tumbles off horseback. His sons would ride and shoot and fence and box and excel and excel and excel.
And God help them if they did not.
George had made the jump, of course. George was always a hair better at all things sporting. And George was also two years his elder, two years bigger, two years stronger. He’d tried to intercede, to save Phillip from punishment, but then Thomas had just whipped him as well, berating him for meddling. Phillip needed to learn how to be a man, and Thomas would not tolerate anyone interfering, even George.
Phillip wasn’t sure what had been different about the punishment that day; usually his father used a belt, which, over a shirt, left no marks. But they’d already been out by the stables, and the whip was handy, and his father had been so damned angry, even angrier than normal.
When the whip sliced through Phillip’s shirt, Thomas didn’t stop.
It was the only time his father’s beatings had left visible scars.
And Phillip was stuck with the reminder for the rest of his life.
He glanced over at Eloise, who was watching him with an oddly intense look in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said, even though he wasn’t. There was nothing to be sorry for, save for having forced her into the horror of his childhood.
“I’m not sorry,” she growled, her eyes narrow and fierce.
His eyes widened with surprise.
“I’m furious.”
And then he couldn’t help it. He laughed. He threw his head back and laughed. She was absolutely perfect, naked and angry, ready to march down to hell itself to drag his father out for a tongue-lashing.
She looked slightly alarmed at his oddly timed laughter, but then she smiled, too, as if recognizing the importance of the moment.
He took her hand and, desperate for her to touch him, brought it to his heart, pressing it flat until her fingers spread out, sinking into the soft, springy hair on his chest.
“So strong,” she whispered, her hand sliding gently along his skin. “I had no idea it was such difficult work, toiling away in the greenhouse.”
He felt like a boy of sixteen, so pleased was he by her compliment. And the memory of his father quietly slipped away. “I do work outside, too,” he said gruffly, unable to simply say thank you.
“With the laborers?” she murmured.
He looked at her with amusement. “Eloise Bridgerton—”
“Crane,” she corrected.
A burst of pleasure shot through him at her words. “Crane,” he repeated. “Don’t tell me you’ve been harboring secret fantasies about the farm laborers.”
“Of course not,” she said, “although . . .”
There was no way he was going to let those words trail off into oblivion. “Although?” he prompted.
She looked a little sheepish. “Well, they do look terribly . . . elemental . . . out there in the sun, toiling away.”
He smiled. Slowly, like a man about to feast upon his dream come true. “Oh, Eloise,” he said, bringing his lips to her neck and moving down, down, down. “You have no idea of elemental. No idea at all.”
And then he did what he’d been dreaming of for days—well, one of the things he’d been dreaming of—and he took her nipple into his mouth, running his tongue around the edge before closing around to suck.
“Phillip!” she nearly shrieked, sinking into him.
He swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed, already turned down and waiting for the newlyweds. He laid her atop the sheets, stopping to enjoy the sight of her before attending to her stockings, which were all that was left on her body. Her hands went instinctively to cover her sex, and he allowed her her modesty, knowing that his turn would come soon.
He looped his fingers under the edge of one stocking, caressing her through the whisper-fine silk before sliding it down her leg. She moaned as he passed her knee, and he couldn’t help looking up and asking, “Ticklish?”
She nodded. “And more.”
And more. He loved that. He loved that she felt more, that she wanted more.
The other stocking was disposed of more quickly, and then he stood beside her, his fingers moving to the fastenings on his trousers. He paused for a moment and looked at her, waiting for her to tell him with her eyes that she was ready.
And then, with a speed and agility he’d never dreamed he possessed, he’d stripped himself of his remaining garments and laid down beside her. She stiffened for a moment, then relaxed as he stroked her, his lips making shushing sounds as they moved to her temple, and then to her lips.
“There is nothing to be afraid of,” he murmured.
“I’m not afraid,” she said.
He drew back, looked her in the face. “You’re not?”
“Nervous, but not afraid.”
He shook his head in wonder. “You are magnificent.”
“I keep telling everyone that,” she said with a nonchalant shrug, “but you seem to be the only one to believe me.”
He chuckled at that, shaking his head in wonder, barely able to believe that here he was, on his wedding night, and he was laughing. Twice now, she had made him laugh, and he was beginning to realize that this was a gift. An amazing, priceless gift, one that he was truly blessed to receive.
Intercourse had always been about need, about his body and his lust and whatever it was that made him a man. It had never been about this joy, this wonder at discovering another person.
He took her face in his hands and kissed her again, this time with all the feeling and emotion coursing through him. He kissed her mouth, then he kissed her cheek, then her neck. And he moved down, exploring her body, from her shoulders to her belly to the side of her hip.
He skipped only one place, one place he would have very much liked to explore, but he decided that would come later, when she was ready.
When he was ready. Marina had never let him kiss her there—no, that wasn’t fair; in truth, he’d never even asked. It had just seemed so wrong as she lay beneath him, still and silent, as if she were performing a duty. There had been women before his marriage, but they’d been of the experienced sort, and he’d never wanted to be quite so intimate with them.
Later, he promised himself as he stopped, briefly, to nuzzle her curls.
Soon. Definitely soon.
He wrapped his large hands around her calves, then slid them up, nudging her legs apart so that he could settle between them. He was hard, really hard, afraid he was going to embarrass himself, and so he took deep breaths as he touched her opening, trying to calm his blood so that he would be able to make this last long enough for her to enjoy herself.
“Oh, Eloise,” he said, although in truth it was more of a grunt. He wanted her more than anything, more than life itself, and he had no idea how he was going to last.
“Phillip?” she asked, her voice sounding vaguely alarmed.
He pulled back so that he could see her face.
“You’re very big,” she whispered.