Meanwhile, in the mistress suite
When Christopher made his way through the connecting dressing room to her bedchamber, Maria glanced up and gave him a brilliant grin. He wore a long dressing robe, and from what she could see under the hem, she surmised he was naked beneath the navy velvet.
“He’s nearly full,” she whispered, the babe noisily suckling at her breast. One of his fists, now pressed against her breastbone, occasionally pounded on her as she gently rocked the chair in which she sat near the fireplace.
Christopher knelt next to the chair and kissed her cheek. “Does he always make this much noise when he eats?” he asked in a whisper, his amusement apparent.
“Only when he’s very hungry.”
“Is the chair comfortable enough for you? If not, I can have—”
“It’s fine, darling,” she whispered, cupping her free hand against his jaw. From how smooth his face felt, she knew he had shaved only moments ago. The scents of citrus and musk surrounded him. “I like it, and I think he does, too. In fact, I think I shall like sitting in it even if I’m not holding Christopher.”
The father nodded. He’d had a footman bring the rocking chair down from the nursery during dinner. Despite it having been nearly two decades since it was last used by her nurse to rock Lucy, the chair seemed in good shape.
“He did so well on the ship. He hardly cried,” she murmured. “I think he liked the motion of it.”
“What shall we call him?”
Maria gave a start. “Do you object to his name? I thought—”
“Oh, Christopher is fine. It’s perfect,” he assured her. “But to alleviate confusion here in the household, I wondered if we should call him... Antonio, perhaps?”
“Shouldn’t I be calling you Reardon?”
He screwed his face into a grimace. “I like how you say my name,” he claimed.
She turned her attention back to the babe. “Antonio it is,” she whispered.
Placing a hand on the top of his son’s head, Christopher rubbed the boy’s forehead with his thumb. The move didn’t seem to bother the babe, for he continued to nurse for another minute before his lips slowed their sucking and he fell asleep.
“Finally,” Maria said. She was about to rise from the chair, but Christopher held a hand to her shoulder. “Let me do it,” he whispered.
Maria watched as he stood and lifted the babe to his shoulder. She had thought he was going to place the boy in his bassinet, but he patted the babe’s back for a moment until a burp came forth.
“Careful, he might—”
“It’s fine,” he assured her. He kissed the top of the baby’s head before leaning over to place him in the bassinet. When he had him covered with a blanket, he turned to discover Maria standing next to him. Her dressing gown, still untied from when she had been nursing, was open wide enough reveal one breast and most of another.
“I have missed you so much,” he whispered, pulling her until she was pressed against the front of his body. “I have been worried sick—literally—every day since...” He couldn’t continue when she speared her fingers through his hair and pulled his head down. Her lips captured his in the first kiss they had shared since her departure from England nearly a year ago.
Christopher returned the kiss. Returned it and set about starting another and yet another as he walked them to the edge of the bed. When he ended one of them, he asked, “Are you able...? I mean, can we...?”
Maria stared up at him. “Make love, do you mean?”
He nodded.
“Of course. If we do not, I shall be very...”
She nearly let out a yelp of surprise when she was suddenly off of her feet and sitting in the middle the bed, the robe only covering her arms and back.
“Disappointed,” she finished as she stared up at her husband.
“Then I shan’t disappoint,” he said. He kissed her once more, pushing her down with a warm hand on her shoulder. When she was on her back, Christopher covered her body with his own, trailing kisses along her collarbones and the tops of her breasts, over her belly down to the apex of her thighs.
“I almost took you at the dinner table,” he whispered hoarsely.
Maria spread her legs apart, apparently well aware of what he intended to do. “I thought you were going to when you said you were ready for dessert. I have been ready for you since then.”
“I was thinking it when the first course was delivered,” he countered in between kisses to the tops of her thighs.
Even before his tongue made contact with the soft folds of her quim, already glistening with her anticipation, he heard her pleas and slid his hands along the inside of her thighs. When her torso rose from the bed, he lowered his head and flicked his tongue across her engorged womanhood. Her body trembled in response.
Another flick had her begging him to impale her, and the last had her saying his name in a sigh so soft, he nearly obliged her. But he waited until he heard her sob before capturing the bud with his lips and suckling it. When he felt her body shiver and shake beneath him, he pulled his own body up and over hers.
Thrusting his manhood into her welcoming cocoon, he nearly lost control in the process. He forced himself to hold on, to deny himself the release his body had demanded since the moment he had placed the babe in the bassinet and took her in his arms.
She lifted her thighs and gripped his, her calves wrapping around his buttocks to trap him. Feeling the undulating waves and then the sudden clench on his manhood was his undoing, and he stiffened as the intense pleasure took him under.
When he collapsed atop her, allowing a long groan of satisfaction, Christopher barely understood her litany of Spanish, the words strung together in one continuous murmur. When her fingernails speared his hair and scraped his scalp, they sent skitters of delight beneath his skin. He couldn’t help the curse that followed, couldn’t help but say, “I love you,” even as he begged her to stop.
Finally succumbing to sleep, his body went limp.
Maria stared at the canopy above as she struggled to catch her breath. This had been nothing like their first night together in a bed. Nothing like that awkward coupling that had been as clumsy as it was uncomfortable.
Having barely given him permission to join her in her bed, Christopher had simply claimed her on that warm spring night nearly a year ago. His body had been so heated, she felt as if he had branded her as his own at the same moment he took her virtue.
Although they had spent a few hours in bed together, she had awakened the following morning to discover him gone.
Their reunion over breakfast had been cordial. Confusing. It was only when they were in private when the newly commissioned captain showed any interest in her during the house party in Kent.
That is, until he had proposed marriage, given her a ring, and announced their betrothal to all in attendance at a farewell dinner given in the conde’s honor in London at Mivart’s Hotel.
That had been their last night together.
Learning her father had given his permission for the marriage more than a week before Christopher had asked for her hand had Maria wondering why the captain had waited so long to propose.
Had he doubted her commitment to him? Had he thought her fast because she hadn’t turned him away when he had come to her room that warm spring night? Had he doubted his own desire for her? Had he learned her father couldn’t offer much if anything in the way of a dowry?
When she finally confronted him after their last dinner together, after the port had been drunk in the dining room and the ladies had departed the parlor, he had admitted, “I wanted to ask you when I first met you, but I knew you would deny me. I wanted to ask the night I took your virtue, but I did not think it appropriate. I wanted to ask you the moment I saw you again here in London, but I thought it best to give you time to feel affection for me. For you to realize I would make you a happy wife.”
His words had been true. He had given her the time she needed for her affection to grow. For her regard for him to make itself apparent to them both.
Then he pulled a paper from his waistcoat. “I saw to a special license so we can be wed before I leave for the Continent. If you’d like, we’ll marry in the morning.”
They made love later that night, a coupling far different from their first night together. Even now, her body seemed to remember how he had pleasured her. How the quiet, intimate act had left them both feeling satiated and replete.
They had married the following morning. By that afternoon, they were both on board ships bound for the Continent.
Although Christopher would have preferred she remain in London and live at Reardon Manor, she reminded him she was not liked by his mother. She hadn’t even met his sister. Besides, she wished to return to her childhood home to pack her things. She would await for word from him regarding arrangements for her travel when the war was over.
A fortnight later—only a week after Napoleon’s forces had been defeated by the coalition armies—John St. John had arrived in Madrid, bringing news of Christopher’s apparent death on the battlefield.
Despite how easy it would have been to take a lover in Spain, Maria had turned away those who showed an interest in her, proudly displaying the bauble and marriage certificate she had been given as proof of her marriage to an English viscount. Besides, she felt duty-bound to mourn him. She was his wife.
Ever since Captain St. John’s most recent visit five days ago, she had felt a combination of anger and dismay at learning the young viscount was still alive. Why hadn’t he sent for her? Why hadn’t he come to Spain to collect her?
Reminded she and her father weren’t where they were supposed to be helped settle her somewhat, but surely news of his recovery could have been forwarded to Valencia by someone.
For the entire trip from Spain, she had wondered how Christopher would behave when they were reunited. How she would react upon seeing him again.
Well, I certainly have my answer now, she thought as she held Christopher’s head between her hands. The side of his face rested between her breasts, and she could feel his steady heartbeat against her belly.
If she hadn’t been nursing his heir, his seed might have taken root, and she could bless him with a spare heir in the new year.
Her thoughts once again strayed to Captain St. John. If he hadn’t taken on a passenger who happened to mention Viscount Reardon’s name in passing, he wouldn’t have known Christopher was alive.
Poor Marcus, who had only thought the best of Viscount Reardon—probably because he had given his permission to court his sister—had been so attentive and so honorable in seeing her delivered to her husband.
Reminded of the letters she carried on his behalf, she was about to extricate herself from Christopher’s hold when she felt his arm tighten around her.
“Please, don’t go,” he whispered. “Ever.”
She tittered softly. “All right,” she replied in English. “But I have Mr. Higgins’ letters for both you and your sister, so I must make her acquaintance on the morrow.”
Christopher mumbled something incoherent before adding, “Breakfast. I’ll introduce you at breakfast,” he whispered.
Suddenly weary from her travels and from what he had done to her only moments ago, Maria pulled the bed linens over them as best she could and nodded off to sleep.