The Right Bride?. Jessica Steele

      ‘Oh.’ She felt her face warm. ‘Well, I’m—honoured.’

      ‘No.’ His voice was gentle. ‘The honour, mon amour, will be all mine, believe me.’

      He was telling her that the waiting was over, and her throat tightened at the promise in his words—just as her body began to tingle in excitement, mingled, at the same time, with a kind of trepidation.

      Because Remy might be the one to be disappointed, she thought with a pang of unease. After all, what did she know about pleasing a man? Less than nothing, as she’d been told so many times in the past. And, however much she might love Remy, she was still the same person at heart, and even his patience could not last for ever.

      Frigid—fumbling—useless. The words were like scars on her psyche.

      I don’t have to do this, she told herself, swallowing. I can find some excuse. Tell him it’s the wrong time of the month. Anything.

      Maybe that I’ve—simply—changed my mind.

      Except, of course, he would only have to touch me, she thought, feeling her entire being shiver in anticipation—and yearning…

      And then they were at Trehel, and somehow it was too late to turn back, even if she’d wanted to.

      It was raining heavily, so Remy parked the Jeep close to the barn, then took her hand and ran with her, pushing open the big double doors.

      The room she found herself in was enormous, with a flagged floor, a large stone fireplace at one end, and a state-of-the-art kitchen at the other. Apart from that, it was still completely unfurnished, but Allie could imagine how it would look, with sofas grouped round the fire, and maybe a huge dining table where friends would eat and talk late into the evening.

      But the really breathtaking feature was the long range of arched full-length windows opposite the entrance, with panoramic views over the paddock and the wooded hills beyond it.

      Even with rain sweeping across in great swathes, the outlook was spectacular.

      She said, with a catch in her voice, ‘It’s—amazing.’ She wandered into the kitchen, running her hand along the marble work surfaces, admiring the gleaming oven and hob with lifted brows. ‘Does it all work?’

      ‘But of course.’ Remy mimed mock pique. ‘Shall I prove it by making you some coffee?’ He paused. ‘Or would you prefer to see the rest of the house?’

      ‘The rest—I think.’ She felt suddenly shy, her heart pounding as they walked towards the wooden staircase that led to the upper floor.

      Say something, she adjured herself. Try to sound casual. Normal.

      ‘Do you know yet how you’re going to furnish it?’

      Oh, God, she sounded as if she was presenting a makeover programme on television.

      ‘I have already begun.’ At the top of the stairs, Remy opened a door, and stood back to let her precede him into what was clearly the master bedroom. It was another big room, soaring up into the barn’s original vaulted roof, with windows on two sides capturing every atom of light, and its expanse of wooden floor softened with sheepskin rugs.

      But, above all, there was the wide bed, made even more massive by its high, ornately carved headboard. Dominating the entire space as it was clearly intended to do.

      And, she realised, freshly made up, too, with crisp white linen and a glamorous satin coverlet the colour of sapphires. Mounded with snowy pillows. Waiting…

      She halted, eyes widening, as she began to tremble, and felt his arms go round her, drawing her back against him. Holding her strongly.

      He said quietly, ‘Lie with me, Alys. Lie with me here, in my house. In my bed.’

      And she turned, lifting her face for his kiss and whispering, ‘Yes,’ against the warm urgency of his mouth.

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      HIS kiss was deep and yearning, as if he was seeking her soul through her lips, and Allie sank against him as a strange weakness invaded her body, her eyes closing and her hands clinging to his shoulders.

      He raised his head at last, framing her face in his hands, looking down at her, gravely and searchingly.

      ‘You are shaking, mon amour,’ he told her quietly. ‘In truth, am I so terrifying?’

      ‘No—oh, no.’ The denial tumbled from her. ‘Oh, Remy, I’m such a fool, but I couldn’t bear it if you were—disappointed in me.’

      He put a silencing finger on her lips. ‘I love you, Alys. And that is all that matters.’ His voice was very gentle. ‘Pleasing each other with our bodies is a joy we shall learn together.’

      He slipped her damp jacket from her shoulders and let it drop, then lifted her into his arms and carried her across the room to the bed, throwing back the sapphire quilt before placing her with great care against the heaped pillows. Then, kicking off his shoes, he came to lie beside her.

      She turned on her side to face him, her hand going shyly to brush a strand of thick dark hair back from his forehead, and he captured her fingers, brushing them softly with his mouth.

      ‘You are the dream of my life, Alys,’ he murmured, then began to kiss her, his lips touching her forehead, her eyes, her cheekbones and her pliant mouth in a series of brief, delicate caresses that seemed to give but then withdraw. Which tantalised but offered no immediate satisfaction.

      Yet that was what she wanted, she realised, startled. What she’d craved ever since that first afternoon at Les Sables, when she’d first felt the touch of his hands on her bare skin.

      She longed to be taken—to feel him inside her and know the heated steel of his arousal as he possessed her.

      She moved closer, pressing herself against him, her lips finding the opening of his shirt, pushing the crisp cotton aside to caress the base of his throat before moving down to the warm hair-roughened skin of his chest.

      Remy groaned softly. ‘Doucement, mon ange,’ he ordered, his voice faintly breathless. ‘I want to make this good for you, and for that I shall need every atom of control I possess.’

      She looked up at him, running the tip of her tongue slowly round her lips. ‘Are you—really so sure of that, monsieur?’

      ‘Ask me again, chérie—later,’ he told her huskily, and recaptured her mouth with his.

      His hand moved to her breast and stroked it gently, moulding its softness and cupping it in his palm, before allowing his fingers to trace her nipple with a delicate precision that made her gasp as he brought it to sharply delineated arousal against the clinging material of her top.

      For a moment he looked down at her, surveying the exquisite havoc he had created, the vivid eyes darkening.

      ‘You are wearing too many clothes, mon amour.’ His voice was a whisper.

      He slipped down the straps of her top, freeing her arms, then deftly tugged the little garment over her head and tossed it aside, baring her to the waist. For a brief, searing moment she was acutely aware of her body—almost ashamed of how slender it was—how slight the curves he’d just uncovered. And her hands went up to conceal them.

      But he guessed her intention and blocked her, his fingers closing firmly round her wrists.

      ‘Don’t hide, Alys,’ he murmured. ‘Not when I have waited so long to see you like this. Show me, ma belle, how truly lovely you are.’

      He bent his head, his mouth slowly adoring each swollen rosy peak in turn, the erotic brush of his tongue creating a new, aching excitement that was echoed deep inside. She sighed, her hips moving restlessly, as the sweet, languorous torment continued, her nipples throbbing with a pleasure that was almost akin to pain.

      When