The French Maid Read Free

She’d never awaited Henry anywhere but in the bed, with the covers pulled up to her chin, afraid that he might think her a loose woman if she did otherwise. Babette had tried to convince her she was wrong in that, but years of Mama’s admonitions still made her anxious.
    And when the door swung open and he stepped inside, she feared for a moment that Babette had been horribly mistaken. Henry stood stock-still, his hand clutching the knob. His black eyes skimmed her thinly clad body, making her blush.
    Then he closed the door. “You look wonderful,” he whispered in a ragged voice, as if the words were torn from him. “Remind me to thank Babette tomorrow.”
    A shaft of pain shot through her before she could prevent it. Then she set her shoulders. If you venture nothing … She walked toward him. “Babette created the gown, Henry, but I am the one wearing it.”
    He blinked at her admonition, then joined her in the middle of the room. “And wearing it very well,” he murmured as he drew her into his arms.
    Triumph swept her. That was a decided improvement on his first comment.
    Then he was kissing her, and all she knew was Henry … hard and lean, pressing into her, stroking her body, touching her in ways he’d never touched her before. His whiskers rasped against her cheek as he kissed along her jawbone. He drew back abruptly to murmur, “I’m sorry … I should have shaved.”
    An apology—would wonders never cease? “I don’t mind,” she said delightedly and found his mouth once more. His kisses were intimate, warm, more fervent than usual. He soon drew her to the bed, and she knelt on it to watch as he stripped off his clothes with frantic haste.
    Usually she averted her eyes when he undressed, though she sometimes peeked when he wasn’t looking. But tonight, she feasted on the sight of him—his surprisingly muscular chest, his wiry arms, the flat belly leading downward …
    She sucked in a breath. He was always aroused when he came to her, but tonight seemed different somehow. He seemed more eager, more impatient, and she exulted over that.
    Without thinking, she reached to touch him there, something she’d always been too timid to attempt. He groaned, but when she jerked back, he grabbed her hand, then pressed it to his flesh. “Yes, darling, touch me. Please.”
    Darling? Please? The uncharacteristic words moistened her parched heart, and she swayed toward him. He clasped her close as he lowered her to the bed, showering her with kisses, covering her with caresses.
    They made love quickly, both of them overeager and fired by need. Emboldened by his earlier response, she tried things she’d never attempted, caressed him in places she’d previously assumed were unacceptable—arching her body into him as she sought to learn every part of this man she scarcely knew.
    And as he took her, it felt as if he struck to her very soul. She opened to receive him as she never really had before. “Ah, my darling wife,” he growled into her ear as he drove harder, deeper, faster. “You are exquisite, my angel …”
    That was all it took to make her explode and cry out her release in his arms.
    After they were done, he dragged her into his arms, and whispered, “You’re a seductress, Eleanor, a bloody seductress. Why did you never show it before?”
    She smiled with immense satisfaction. “Perhaps I did. Perhaps you weren’t paying attention.”
    He nuzzled her hair. “Well, I’m damn well paying attention now.”
    Clasping her close, he settled her against his chest. She waited for the easy breathing that generally signaled the end to their intimacies, but instead he talked. And talked. And talked some more.
    He asked her questions and told her of his childhood. He coaxed her into doing the same. She was stunned by the secrets he kept inside, as stunned as she was by the secrets that poured from her own mouth.
    When he made love to her again later, she knew something had changed between them, for he’d