“You would have me be a slattern then?”
He shook his head. “I would have you be the enchantress that you are. And your amazing hair is one thing that makes you so.”
The sudden brightness in her face made him realize she had no idea of how intoxicating she was physically, not only to him but probably to a number of bachelors. He wondered why she wasn’t vain as a peacock. She had the right to be.
“We’ll see if you still think me an enchantress after I do this.” And with one liquid movement, she shimmied out of her nightdress, letting it drop to the floor.
His mouth went dry as he stepped back to take in the full effect. God save him. With her hair eddying around her shoulders and trailing down her arms, she was a wonder of creation. “I don’t know what you were trying to prove, sweetheart,” he said hoarsely, “but you wearing only pearls merely proves me right.”
He reached out to cup both her breasts, which were ample enough to fill his hands and adorned with shell-pink nipples besides. She was a veritable Venus, the pearls accentuating her creamy skin and lush figure, which was rounded in all the right places, tempting a man to tease and caress and devour. Just as Mars, the Roman God of War, had seduced the Goddess of Love, Sheridan meant to seduce his own private Venus. Nor could he wait a minute longer.
Taking her by surprise, he caught her up in his arms and carried her to the bed, where he laid her out atop the sheets, the cover having been pulled back by servants in anticipation of just this moment. But when he knelt on the bed, she pushed up on one elbow to rest her head in her hand. “Oh, no, you don’t, husband. You promised I could see you naked, too. It’s your turn.” She held out her other hand to him, the one with the pearl bracelet. “I’ll loan you the Armitage pearls, if you wish, Your Grace.”
“Very funny,” he said dryly. “And as I recall, I promised nothing about standing naked before you. Although I suppose I can overlook your misapprehension just this once.”
Then he began to remove his clothes. He only prayed he could finish before he fell on her like a starving wolf at a feast.
Chapter Fourteen
Vanessa had never seen a man so bold. Were all men this eager to undress for a lady? Because she felt decidedly odd lying here naked before him, with the pearls weighing heavily about her neck and wrist like chains marking her as his, forever.
The way he looked at her as he shed his banyan and kicked off his shoes didn’t help. His eyes, hungry and hot, ate her up. A wild thrill shot through her to think of him ravishing her, even though she wasn’t sure what ravishing actually was. What if she made a fool of herself in her ignorance?
He’d removed his cravat long before he’d entered her bedchamber, tantalizing her with a glimpse of his bare throat above his mostly buttoned shirt. Now he undid the remaining buttons and tugged the shirt off, revealing his entire upper body in all its carnal glory.
Heavens, what a sight. The shoulders she’d assumed must be enhanced by his clothing were all his—as broad as she’d imagined. And his chest! Oh, Lord. The only bare chest she’d ever seen was on a marble statue of Adonis, so to view a real man’s was breathtaking.
Not only did Sheridan’s chest look every bit as muscular as that on the Adonis, but it had things the statue lacked. Like nipples. Who knew that women and men both had them? What’s more, Sheridan’s chest had hair around the nipples, tight curls a shade darker than the hair on his head.
She ached to touch them, both the nipples and the hair, and as if he could read her mind, he approached the bed to place her hand on his well-knit chest. At once she began to stroke it. How fine it was, velvet over stone. The longer she stroked, the faster it rose and fell with the quickening of his breath.
She excited him, did she? That was certainly encouraging. It also prompted her to sit up and spread both hands over his surprisingly responsive flesh.
As she skimmed her hands down to caress his lean stomach, he groaned. “If you’re hoping to make me beg, my duchess, you’re going about it the right way.”
“Am I?” she said teasingly, before what he’d called her registered. My duchess. It had a nice ring of permanency to it. Then she noticed the swelling of something in his trousers. “Oh, dear. I did hurt you before.”
“That’s how a man looks when he’s aroused.” He began to undo his trouser buttons. “Here, I’ll show you.”
She pushed his hands away, shocked by her own impudence. “Let me do it.”
He gave a guttural laugh. “Why not? I should have known you’d be a greedy miss in the bedroom.”
“I’m merely curious. You should have expected that. I’ve never been with a man before. Not like this, anyway.” She unbuttoned his trousers, only to find herself thwarted by another set of trousers beneath it. “What’s this?”
“This, sweetheart, is where a man takes charge of the undressing before he erupts . . . er . . . does something he will almost certainly regret later.” He undid the underpart of his clothes and shucked both sets of trousers off, leaving himself entirely nude.
And giving her an eye-level view of his lower anatomy. Especially the thick staff of flesh thrusting out from a nest of hair between his legs. It was growing rather impressively.
“God save me, Vanessa,” he said hoarsely, “if you don’t stop staring at my cock, I’m liable to embarrass myself.”
“Your ‘cock’?” She gazed up at him, wondering how he could embarrass himself when he hadn’t even so much as a flushed face. “Wait, is this like a codpiece in the theater? Only bigger? And more . . . protruding?”
“Touch it,” he choked out. “I want your hands on me.”
She did as he asked, slipping one finger along the length of it. That only seemed to agitate him, for he seized her hand, then closed it around his “cock.” “Do it like this.”
His hand over hers stroked his thing, which literally moved in her fist as if it had a mind of its own. How fascinating! But she only got to stroke it a few times—marveling at the smooth texture and dark red flush of it—before Sheridan muttered something that sounded like a curse and brushed her hands away.
Then he pushed her back upon the bed and repositioned her so she was lying with her legs parted, allowing him to kneel between them, with that thrusting flesh of his veering dangerously close to her privates.
Perhaps that was on purpose. “Oh!” Was he intending to push his hard flesh inside her? That reminded her. . . . “Mama did tell me one thing—that my deflowering would hurt.”
“Not if I’m careful,” he choked out. “And I promise I will be. You’re safe in my hands, sweetheart.”
“If you say so.” Meanwhile, her mind did calculations that seemed to protest he was much too large to fit inside her. But how could that be? Women did these sorts of things all the time. Would they do it if it hurt every time?
Possibly. Lord knew women did other things for men that hurt. Like having children.
He must have seen her wariness because he leaned down to kiss her, his rigid thing trapped between her belly and his. She relaxed at once. She liked kissing him. Every time he drove his tongue into her mouth, he sent her senses reeling.