“And it was delicious. Am I to take it that you wouldn’t object if I took you again this morning—boots and all?”
She looked up at him, earnest and very sweet. “Of course I wouldn’t mind. It was very nice yesterday, though I don’t think the housekeeper would be very happy about you wearing boots in bed—” She squeaked as he pounced on her.
“Nice, was it?” He edged her knees apart.
“V-very nice.”
“Pah. I’ll show you something better than nice.” And he did.
• • •
A mistake. That was what it had been. A damnable, stupid mistake. A complete lack of self-discipline. Ned glanced sideways at the woman alongside him. They’d been for a fine gallop and now had slowed to a walk, giving their mounts some breathing space. Lily was glowing, and not from the exercise. At least, not this particular exercise.
His plans to apologize to her for his actions the day before—coming at her like an animal in his boots, not even bothering to disrobe—kept falling awry. He’d meant to do it last night over dinner, and then she’d started eating that blasted asparagus. All thoughts of an apology—in fact, all logical thought—had been driven from his mind.
And then dessert. He groaned.
So after that fiasco—pleasurable as it was—he’d been determined to get the apology over and done with this morning.
Instead he’d pounced on her again, fully clothed and in his boots, because instead of being appalled at his ungentlemanly behavior, she’d said she liked it. Liked it! He ground his teeth together.
And because of all that—damn him for a randy, unrestrained fool—it was as if someone had lit a candle inside her. She couldn’t stop smiling, seemed to be bubbling over with it, finding delight in everything—the horses, the estate, lambs, flowers, birds—but the smiles that spilled out of her told him what was really going on.
She was making him out—again—to be some kind of hero.
Misplaced romantic expectations—they had to stop. If she kept going this way—no, he had to stop it, now, before any more damage was done.
He was nobody’s hero, and the sooner she learned that, the better it would be for her.
He glanced at her, lit up with the afterglow of a vigorous round of bedsport, and imagining it to be some kind of romantic nonsense. He hated to do this to her, but it was kinder to crush those unrealistic expectations now, before they could develop any further. Better a small disappointment now than a big one later.
“You’re new to this,” he began.
She turned her head. “This?”
“Bedsport—sexual congress between a man and a woman—you’re not used to it yet.”
“No, but I do enj—”
“That’s not what I mean, though I’m glad you didn’t find it distasteful.”
“Not at all, in fact—”
“But it’s just bedsport,” he said bluntly. “These feelings you’re experiencing at the moment? It’s the act that creates them. It’s common to mistake those feelings for love, especially when one is new to sexual congress. But it’s not.” He gave her a steady look. “It’s just bedsport. So don’t fool yourself into imagining it’s anything more.”
There was a long silence. They rode on. Clouds were starting to build up. The breeze freshened, whipping the waves in the distance.
“You mean all the women you’ve lain with feel like”—she gestured vaguely—“this?”
“No, the women I lay with in the past were all very experienced. They knew it meant nothing, just pleasure.” And how cynical was that? But it was true.
“I see.” Her happy glow faded. “So you’re telling me that lo—what I feel is just the result of . . . what we did in bed?”
“Yes.” He felt like a brute, but it had to be done, for her own sake. “I know it sounds hard, but don’t make yourself miserable crying for the moon. The best basis for marriage is liking and respect—friendship. If we can achieve friendship between us, that will be enough.”
“Friendship. I see. And what if . . .” She hesitated, then lifted her chin and decided to say it anyway. “What if I want more than that?”
Ned knew what she was saying. This was the girl, after all, who’d told him she wanted to marry for love. But life wasn’t what you thought it was at eighteen. He’d learned that the hard way. He’d rather die than put her through what he had.
“Then you’ll be courting disappointment,” he said in a hard voice. She didn’t realize it, but he was letting her down gently.
She gave him a long, thoughtful look, then turned her horse around and headed at a fast canter back in the direction of the house. He didn’t follow. She looked a bit upset, but that was understandable.
He watched her disappearing over the hill. He’d done the right thing. So why did he feel so . . . wretched?
Better to have lowered expectations early on, than to dream of glory and be shattered.
• • •
Lily urged her horse faster. The breeze, crisp and cold and smelling of salt, was bracing, invigorating. But it didn’t cool her anger.
She hate-hate-hated the term bedsport—it was nothing of the sort! What she did with her husband—in or out of the bed—“riding” or “dessert” or whatever silly name he wanted to call it—was not sport! It was part of the blessed sacrament of marriage.
And she hated hearing about the women he’d lain with in the past—even if she had been the one to bring them up. Lesson learned. She’d never do that again.
So he didn’t want her to have feelings. Such a ridiculous, manlike thing to say. As if she had any choice in the matter.
But if he didn’t like her having feelings, she’d just have to keep them to herself.
And if he thought friendship was enough, well, fine—he could think what he wanted! It wasn’t enough for her.
Maybe she was being unrealistic in hoping he would come to love her, but better to aim for the moon than not even try. Why wouldn’t he try? Why try instead to crush all possibilities—on the very first day of
