Thursday, August 11, 2011

Love's Savage Whiplash Chapter Twelve: The Wedding Night

In which a once-nefarious, now-restored soul deflowers his Virgin Bride and develops a Conscience

Westley opened the door and stepped into the room where his bride awaited him. He’d ensured the horse was stabled and fed and had spoken to the innkeeper about having a meal and a bottle of wine brought to the room.

Tare an’hounds, they’d done it! He’d been well and truly caught in the parson’s mousetrap, though he couldn’t be too cut up about that. Miss Julia Fitzgerald was his now, his bride, his wife, and, apparently, his duchess. He smiled, his body tightening in anticipation of their first night as man and wife.

He quietly closed the door behind him and his bride looked up at him from the small desk where she sat. Her golden hair gleamed in the lamp light like an angel’s halo lit by the sun, or perhaps by the moon, or even by both the sun and the moon. But were there a sun and moon in heaven where angels dwelled? Perhaps not. But in any case her hair was divine, her face seraphic, and her shy smile stole his breath.

“Wife,” he said, moving toward her. She rose from the chair and stepped forward, meeting him. He took her hands in his. “You are so beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Her voice quivered. “I cannot believe we are married.”

He smiled reassuringly at her. “Indeed we are. Are you hungry?”

She blinked. “Why yes, I suppose I am.”

“Good. The innkeeper’s wife is bringing us food and drink.”

“Th-that sounds lovely.” Her long eyelashes fluttered down to her peaches-and-cream cheeks.

He tipped her chin up with his fingers so he could look into her eyes. “Are you nervous, my sweet little love duckling?”

The flicker in her eyes gave him his answer. He bent his head to brush her lips with his. “There, now,” he murmured. “There is naught to be afraid of.”

“I have never...lain with a man.”

Of course she hadn’t. Satisfaction swelled inside him that he would be her first. “Thank you, my love. You will be giving me a precious gift tonight.”

“I...what is that, Your Grace?”

“Your virginity, of course.” And he kissed her again. This time he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue and when her lips parted, heat surged through him. He curled one hand around the back of her neck and the other lowered to the small of her back, pulling her closer against him. Her soft curves inflamed his lust, her kisses burned to his soul, and heat rushed through his body. Then he slid his tongue into her mouth, finding hers. He swallowed her gasp, held her tighter lest she try to pull away. Their tongues engaged in a waltz of love, forward, backward, sliding. His breeches tightened as his pikestaff swelled.

“Oh, Colin!”

He drew back and frowned. Blast it, why did she have to keep calling him that? Well, of course it was because she believed that to be his name. He bit back a sigh. If he was going to restore the he’d best get accustomed to being called Colin. But the idea that his comely, innocent bride had perhaps harbored feelings of affection for another man made his hands curl into fists.

“Call me Earl,” he said. “No. Call me Westley.”

“Westley?” She gazed up at him, a delicate furrow between her eyebrows. “But your name is not Westley.”

“No. But I like that name.” Her apparent puzzlement deepened. “And I can call you Georgina.”


“Yes.” He sought for some explanation. “Sometimes married couples have special names for each other. And sometimes you could dress in the garb of an upstairs maid—with a ruffled apron?— and I could dress as a stable boy and we could play games where I might—”

“An upstairs maid.”

“Yes.” He smiled at her, but when she continued to frown at him, his smile faded. “Well. Ahem. Never mind, then. You can call me Your Grace.”

“I want to call you Colin.” She stepped back from him and folded her arms across her bosom, her pretty mouth set in a mutinous line.

This unexpected display of spirit and stubbornness both annoyed him and aroused him. His tallywacker surged once again behind the buttons of his breeches.

At that moment a knock on the door vibrated through the room.

“Er...that will be our supper.” He walked stiffly to the door and opened it.

The innkeeper’s wife bustled in, followed closely by another young girl. They both carried dishes and a third girl appeared with a bottle of wine and goblets. “Here ye be,” the innkeeper’s wife said, her rosy cheeks plumped up in a smile. “Your supper. Some lovely mutton roasted with herbs, and a nice bottle of burgundy.” She and the maids arranged things on the small oak table in the corner of the room. “You be sure to ring if you need anything a’tall, Your Grace.”

The door closed behind them and he and his bride were left alone again.

Their eyes met. “Fine,” he said with a sigh. “Call me Colin. Shall we eat?”

He did not want to eat. He wanted to bed his bride, to deflower her and make her his in every way. His loins burned with a fever of desire. But she was a delicate virgin and he had to be slow and careful with her, as with a skittish horse shying away, a filly who felt vulnerable without her alpha male, her stallion. To calm her he must be calm himself and play with her until her confidence grew.

As they ate by candle light in the small quiet room, they talked about the duchy, Westley trying to glean what information he could from her without letting on his ignorance. He poured more wine for her, hoping this would relax her. Though he did not want his bride so foxed as to not be able to play pickle-me-tickle-me later.

As they talked, their eyes met. She touched his hand. His knee brushed against hers beneath the table. Heat built. The air around them fairly crackled. Then Julia laid down her fork and knife and gazed at him across the table with limpid turquoise eyes and a soft mouth

“Colin,” she said in a husky voice. “I believe I am done with this delicious meal.”

“Oh, but...” He met her eyes. “Oh.” The beat of his heart deepened into a heavy pounding in his chest.

Julia smiled at him. “Make me your wife,” she whispered. “Take me to bed.”


Colin rose and extended his hand to her and she laid her hand in his. He took her in his arms and smiled down at her. His dark hair fell rakishly over his forehead, his eyes gleamed and a smile touched his lips. The way he looked at her made her feel so beautiful, so cherished and loved. She’d been alone so long, after losing all her family, finding a love like this made her heart swell in her chest and her throat tighten.

“I did not want to rush you,” he murmured, brushing his lips over hers. Her lips tingled in response and her blood heated in her veins. “Do you know what it is that a man and his wife do on their wedding night? Do you babies are made, my little love duckling?”

“I...I...” She trembled in his arms. Her doubts and fears returned. “I am an educated woman, Your Grace. Colin. But I did not have a mother to give me connubial counsel. I have heard talk...I have seen the horses...”

“I will teach you,” he replied, kissing her again, heating her skin, causing a queer ache to develop deep inside her. She pressed against him and his tongue probed into her mouth, tasting of burgundy and his own male essence. His kisses explored her mouth and invited her to do the same, one hand stroking her back in a lovely rhythm, the other sliding into her hair.

They kissed again and again, longer kisses, deeper kisses that made her want more and more, though she knew not exactly what she longed for. Fever built inside her, though not a dangerous fever as with scarlet fever, more of a sunburned kind of feeling, or no, rather more of a feeling of deep embarrassment, a flushed, warm feeling that started deep inside and spread outward.

She wound her arms around his neck, pressed her body against his from chest to thigh and kissed him back with enthusiasm and ardor equal to his own. As the ache deep inside her intensified, she felt his body hardening against her, almost alarmingly, but then she smiled against his mouth as she realized what she felt.

“Your Grace,” she purred.


“I believe I have found your ferret.”

He jerked back from her. “My ferret? found Brigid?” He gazed down at her with lust-dazed eyes.

She tipped her head to one side and squinted at him. “You named it Brigid?”


She blinked at him. “Lud, you do have a somewhat odd penchant for using different names. I trust you have not named it after some other...woman. Because that would be rather...queer.”

“No, no. No other woman. But where is she? Where is Brigid?”

“Right here.” She lowered her hand to the placket of his breeches and gently squeezed his manroot.

He looked down. “Er...darling sweet love duckling...that is not my ferret.”

“It is not?” She peered up at him, stroking him. “I thought that was what you called it. When you wanted me to help find your ferret, I believed that you had some kind of plan for illicit congress in mind.”

His lips twitched. “, my dear. But let’s not talk about Brigid right now.”

She gazed at him with affront. “Well if this is not Brigid, who is she then?”

He sighed. “I do have a ferret. It is an animal. A carnivorous mammal of the weasel family. She is my pet and her name is Brigid.”

“Did you bring this creature home with you from the high seas? That does seem unusual. I would think that a pirate might bring back something like a crocodile or a...a shark. Or a parrot! Why, what ever happened to Pemberley...remember? He was lovely and lavender and had quite an extensive vocabulary.”

“Er....yes. But perhaps we could have this zoological discussion later.”

“Yes. So. If this is not your ferret...” She squeezed again, drawing a groan from him. “What is it?”

“That, my dear, is my love truncheon. My passion prong.” He kissed her and moved her toward the bed. “My lance of love.”

“Oh.” She trembled again. “Will it...hurt?”

“It may. A little. But only for a moment. I promise I will also make you feel good. Now we must get you out of this clothing...” He slid his tongue along the side of her neck and she shivered.

“I will go behind the screen to disrobe,” she gasped.

“No.” He turned her around and began to unbutton her dress. A kiss to the nape of her neck brought forth more shudders of delight. “We are married. I want to gaze upon the perfection of your skin. The beauty of your body.”

“Colin.” His improper words made heat blossom between her legs. “Oh, Colin.”

He dragged her gown down and it puddled at their feet. Her petticoat went next and then his hands went to the ties of her corset. As he unfastened her drawers then stripped her shift off over her head, his mouth teased the skin he revealed, his tongue tasted, and his fingers caressed and tormented her heated flesh. Her eyes drifted closed with pleasure, though a lingering shyness at being naked in front of a man remained. When he stepped back and turned her to face him, then raked his gaze up and down her body, devouring her with eyes that blazed with passion, her breasts tingled and swelled with anticipation. Feminine satisfaction and joy swelled inside her. She wanted to please him so very much.

“Your body is beautiful,” he whispered. “Your skin so soft, like the skin of a peach. Your breasts are perfect globes and...” His eyes dropped. “Your tufted treasure is exquisite.”

Heat flooded from her chest up into her face at his frank words. But she wanted to feast her eyes upon his perfect skin and beautiful body. She bit her lip and peered up at him through her eyelashes. “Will you disrobe, too?”

His slow smile had her pulse galloping like the horse on which he’d carried her here after forcibly removing her from the hackney coach. He shrugged out of his coat, then unbuttoned his waistcoat. She climbed onto the bed to watch him, fascinated as he stripped down to his drawers, hesitated, and then removed them as well.

She drew in a sharp breath, taking in his broad shoulders, the sculpted muscles of his chest and arms and abdomen. And...her gaze lowered to truncheon. Her eyes widened at the sight of that turgid shaft of masculinity, the flushed flesh and throbbing veins.

“Oh my,” she breathed. “Oh, Colin.”

He turned and moved toward the table, giving her a view of his backside that was equally as impressive, his tightly-muscled buttocks and thighs flexing as he walked. She tipped her head to one side, though, as she took in the mark on his posterior...a birthmark on his right cheek. A most unusual one. She squinted at it, then smiled, this small imperfection on an otherwise perfect body endearing him to her even more.

He returned to the bed, bringing a candle to set nearby, the room now mostly dark. In the flickering golden glow his body gleamed and emanated strength and power and...danger. That weapon of love was both intimidating and exciting. She swallowed, but inside she still ached and burned.

“You seem so different lately, Your Grace,” she whispered.

“How so, my love?”

“I never realized before how masterful you are. How...strong. How forceful. When you swept me up onto that horse and said you were taking me to the nearest parson to marry me...well, it was the most thrilling moment of my life.”

He smiled as he climbed onto the bed and moved over her. “Until now.”

She smiled back at his cocksure confidence in his ability to please her, and twined her arms around his neck. “Yes. Until now.”

* * *

Westley kissed Julia again, overcome by emotion, lust rolling through him in heated waves. He kissed her breasts, suckled at the tender berries of her nipples until she writhed and moaned beneath him. He slid a hand between them to find her Cupid’s furrow, pleased to find her soft flesh so very slick. She gasped and her thighs tightened on his hand. “Sssh, my love duckling,” he whispered, kissing her breasts. “Relax. Your love juices have begun to flow. That will make things easier for you.”

He played with her lady flower for a long time, kissing and sucking her plump bubbies, wanting her to be ready for him. Her soft whimpers and cries escalated into a symphony of seduction, a crescendo of passion, music to his ears. His body responded by hardening even more, his blood surging hotly in his veins. Then he reached for his throbbing manroot and found her entrance. He felt her tense as he entered her, her body bathing the head of his manhood with her sweet honey of ecstasy. He was going to hurt her, he knew it, and unexpected tenderness filled him.

“I’m sorry, my love,” he whispered—then he thrust into her. She squealed like a virgin on her wedding night, which, in point of fact, she was. He swallowed her small cry of pain with his mouth, kissing her again and again, trying to remain still as her body accepted him into her bower of bliss. Then he slowly began to move inside her, fighting for control. To his delight and gratification, she moved with him. He lifted his head and gazed at her face, her aquamarine eyes shiny with tears, a small smile trembling on her lips. “There,” he whispered. “There. So beautiful.”

She nodded, her gaze fixed upon his with utmost trust and devotion, and they rocked together until he exploded like a volcano, hurling both of them into a blazing inferno, a swirling cyclone of sparks—heat and light and transcendent wonder.

They lay together for long moments, her bosom heaving, both of them panting. And then some kind of emotion he could not identify filled him...could it be...guilt? Remorse? Those feelings old Roberts had told him never to allow himself to feel?

Why? At this moment he should be reveling in the satisfaction of having deflowered his beautiful virgin bride. But no...something else gnawed at his insides.

He’d wanted to feel worthy of her affection. He’d believed he could restore the Dukedom or the Duchy or whatever it was called with her at his side. He’d thought she’d restored his nefarious soul, but the truth was...he was still a blackguard. A bounder.

Had she really loved Colin? Even though Westley believed Colin would never return, and even though she was now well and truly his, the fact remained that he was pitching the gammon. Shamming it. And that was not fair to this beautiful English rose, this sweet pea of innocence, this fair flower of womanhood. He loved her—but he was living a lie. She thought him Colin Darcy, the Duke of Earl, and he was naught but a profligate imposter.

To be continued...

A Word to you, Our Dear and Gentle Readers: If you enjoyed this small offering, please do us the honor of returning to grace our humble blog with your presence one week hence, when we shall be delighted to bring to you the next installment of our little saga, which is to be entitled, Chapter Thirteen: Out of the Mouths of Parrots.Link
And please partake of our Love’s Savage Contest. Leave a comment here or go to our Facebook page (link in the column on the right) and quote your favorite line from this week’s episode to be entered in a monthly drawing for a giftcard at the bookstore of your choice and a grand finale drawing for a signed e-reader cover.

The Naughty Nine

Click to read Chapter Thirteen

Click to read Chapter 11B

Click to read from the beginning


Maria said...

Lol..another great installment ladies! I really like Westley - though of course I miss

My favorite line this week : He looked down. “Er...darling sweet love duckling...that is not my ferret.”

Sherry said...

Thanks for another great chapter.

This unexpected display of spirit and stubbornness both annoyed him and aroused him. His tallywagger surged once again behind the buttons of his breeches.

elaing8 said...

Loved this weeks installment.

favorite line:
Well...I LOL with the whole 'I found your ferret' its more than a line this week for me.

Polly20 said...

There were so many gr8 comments, but this was the most "romantic".

he did not want his bride so foxed as to not be able to play pickle-me-tickle-me later.

Ivelisse said...

I loved this part the most:
“Yes.” He sought for some explanation. “Sometimes married couples have special names for each other. And sometimes you could dress in the garb of an upstairs maid—with a ruffled apron?— and I could dress as a stable boy and we could play games where I might—”


Jean P said...

Oh my, that was another great chapter. This one jumped out at me
"Though he did not want his bride so foxed as to not be able to play pickle-me-tickle-me later."