Chapter 3
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He gave her a wicked grin and reached out, spun her about and clasped an arm around her waist. "This," he said softly against her ear. His other hand fumbled between them briefly, and then he lifted her skirts from behind. He pinned them by pressing forward against her, and slid his other hand around and beneath the front of her skirt to the trouser fastenings.
Suddenly realizing what was about to occur she knew she ought to protest or resist but found herself frozen, limbs lethargic with shock. Still she managed to force a word, "wait," out as her trousers slid to the floor.
He didn't wait, instead he pressed her forward and lifted her a little with his arm. He took her then, and all she could think was, how odd this feels, and I thought it would hurt more from what my sister's said. For in truth, the sudden pressure and piercing had been somewhat lost in the shock of the event.
After a few moments, he said quietly, and somewhat uncertainly, "There is, a bit of blood?"
And somehow she found herself laughing shakily against his arm. "Well... well, there would be? Wouldn't there?" she asked.
There was no immediate response, nor did he pause in his motions.
"This isn't how I imagined..." and 'sans wedding,' she added in her thoughts a little desperately. "In fact none of this is how I imagined it would go. You, you didn't even laugh! Just raised an eyebrow and said 'trousers?' "
A breathless little silence passed and then he said, "I'm sorry." He asked her quietly, "You're not resisting?" Nor was he stopping.
"Well," she said uncertainly, "well I suppose I might have fought you if I had realized quicker. Or I could call for help, but, but I did agree to lift my skirts for you, in public, at the dinner table no less..." she trailed off. "I, I rather think that any rescuer would feel that I am getting exactly what I deserved," this last came out almost as a sob, but not quite, for though tears seemed distant her breath felt short.
She felt strange, but she thought it ought to feel bad, and was confused that it did not.
"If, if you're going to do this much, won't you at least tell me your first name?" she asked breathlessly.
A pause. "No one but my mother has called me by my first name in years, does it matter?" he asked.
"It does to me!" Elizabeth protested.
"Mark."
"What?"
"My first name is Mark."
She found herself laughing again. And he lowered her enough that her feet were flat against the floor again. "Seriously? Your name is Mark?" She tried to glance back and see his face, but the position was too awkward.
"Yes," he said, his tone somewhat offended. "I have other names if you would prefer."
"No, no, Mark is fine." She paused, "But I should like to hear the others if you don't mind?"
A rather breathless reply, "Mark Anthony Saint George Adrian Waverly."
"Adrian alone" she said without explanation, and continued in the strange breathless half whisper, "so one of your names is Saint?"
"Highly inappropriate, I agree," he panted.
And then he groaned, and pulled her tight against him, and shuddered for a moment.
"Don't move, just a moment," he instructed in a more ordinary tone. Then he bent and lifted her trousers into place, reaching around with both hands beneath her skirts to fasten them. She raised her body from the bent posture he had held her in, as he let her skirts drop. He shook them into place again, touched her hair lightly, and stepped back as she turned to face him.
His expression was unreadable to her. His face was somewhat flushed, lips reddened, eyes bright. His dark hair curled slightly with the exertion, the whiter strands lightly scattered through it seeming to glitter. He stepped around the shelf they had stood behind and sat on an armless chair, padded rather than upholstered like the deeper chairs in the room. She followed, uncertainly.
His expression was serious as he watched her. She wasn't quite sure why, but she was moved to kneel before him, one hand outstretched to just touch his side. "You don't look happy," she said plaintively. His brow raised slightly. "You ought to be happier after having had what you wanted," she protested a little shakily.
"I enjoyed it very much," he said quietly, and his mouth quirked up at the corners a little. "But now I'm contemplating the consequences of my actions," he continued gravely.
He reached out and traced a finger lightly along the edge of her cheek, brushing back a strand of soft brown hair, that had partially escaped its confinement.
"As I've given you all of my names, perhaps you'll give me yours?" he inquired lightly.
She froze, in sudden hurt, and pulled away from him. "You..." She seemed to have difficulty drawing enough breath to speak, and stood. "You don't even know who I am!" she accused.
A wry lift of an eyebrow, and his reply, "You won't tell me?"
At last tears prickled, but she turned away, and she held them back somehow. "I suppose my reputation will be safer, if even the man who's had me doesn't know," she replied somewhat miserably.
He did not reply. She swallowed, and after a moment or two, turned to face him again. He gazed back at her somewhat expressionlessly. Then ventured "What if there is," a pause, "issue?"
She felt as if she turned red, and then white, as she contemplated what he was asking. "Well, ah," she began, and then she replied defiantly, "I know very well who you are! Even if I did not know all of your names. So if there is... is a result of our actions, I can come to you." After another little pause she asked hesitantly, "Unless you are in the habit of turning pregnant women from your doorstep?" And she declared a little angrily, "Which if you do such things, and then do so, that would make you an utter cad! And I have never heard that you are a cad?" she added uncertainly.
He tilted his head and inquired softly, "Perhaps no one dares say so, out of respect for my wealth and title?"
She frowned at him, prettily, but unconsciously so. "No, I don't think so," she replied after a moment. "For everyone says old Duke Pembroke is a cad, and he has wealth and title and is invited everywhere... but everyone still calls him a cad." This last was uttered more confidently.
A smile teased the corners of Lord Waverly's mouth. "I have never turned a woman from my doorstep." His look turned serious again. "So I shall expect to hear from you, within a month or two, " he stood, "if there is... any result from our actions. Don't wait too long."
"Alright," was her subdued reply.
He stepped toward her and attempted to draw her hand over his arm. "We should return before we are missed."
She laughed awkwardly, and withdrew her hand. "I won't be missed. And, and even if I am, you have brought me to the library." Half laugh, half sob. "It's the first place anyone would come looking for me," she said in response to his look.
"I see," he replied.
"It's smaller than I expected," she said.
The eyebrow flicked upward again. "It's not a small library," he refuted.
"No," she replied, "but this house is so very large and grand, I always assumed the library would be bigger."
A smile quirked at his mouth. "I see," he said again, and then he frowned. "Then if you wish to stay here, I shall return alone, that we not be missed together."
She nodded and turned away from him. And swallowed, the tears were prickling her for release more fiercely once again.
Suddenly he stepped up to her, wrapped his arms about her and squeezed tightly. "It was lovely. Thank you," he said softly against her ear. And then he released her and was out the library door before she had turned.
The tears which had been about to spill, faded into a puzzled numb sort of feeling. And uncertain, of anything, she turned toward the bookshelves out of habit.
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He gave her a wicked grin and reached out, spun her about and clasped an arm around her waist. "This," he said softly against her ear. His other hand fumbled between them briefly, and then he lifted her skirts from behind. He pinned them by pressing forward against her, and slid his other hand around and beneath the front of her skirt to the trouser fastenings.
Suddenly realizing what was about to occur she knew she ought to protest or resist but found herself frozen, limbs lethargic with shock. Still she managed to force a word, "wait," out as her trousers slid to the floor.
He didn't wait, instead he pressed her forward and lifted her a little with his arm. He took her then, and all she could think was, how odd this feels, and I thought it would hurt more from what my sister's said. For in truth, the sudden pressure and piercing had been somewhat lost in the shock of the event.
After a few moments, he said quietly, and somewhat uncertainly, "There is, a bit of blood?"
And somehow she found herself laughing shakily against his arm. "Well... well, there would be? Wouldn't there?" she asked.
There was no immediate response, nor did he pause in his motions.
"This isn't how I imagined..." and 'sans wedding,' she added in her thoughts a little desperately. "In fact none of this is how I imagined it would go. You, you didn't even laugh! Just raised an eyebrow and said 'trousers?' "
A breathless little silence passed and then he said, "I'm sorry." He asked her quietly, "You're not resisting?" Nor was he stopping.
"Well," she said uncertainly, "well I suppose I might have fought you if I had realized quicker. Or I could call for help, but, but I did agree to lift my skirts for you, in public, at the dinner table no less..." she trailed off. "I, I rather think that any rescuer would feel that I am getting exactly what I deserved," this last came out almost as a sob, but not quite, for though tears seemed distant her breath felt short.
She felt strange, but she thought it ought to feel bad, and was confused that it did not.
"If, if you're going to do this much, won't you at least tell me your first name?" she asked breathlessly.
A pause. "No one but my mother has called me by my first name in years, does it matter?" he asked.
"It does to me!" Elizabeth protested.
"Mark."
"What?"
"My first name is Mark."
She found herself laughing again. And he lowered her enough that her feet were flat against the floor again. "Seriously? Your name is Mark?" She tried to glance back and see his face, but the position was too awkward.
"Yes," he said, his tone somewhat offended. "I have other names if you would prefer."
"No, no, Mark is fine." She paused, "But I should like to hear the others if you don't mind?"
A rather breathless reply, "Mark Anthony Saint George Adrian Waverly."
"Adrian alone" she said without explanation, and continued in the strange breathless half whisper, "so one of your names is Saint?"
"Highly inappropriate, I agree," he panted.
And then he groaned, and pulled her tight against him, and shuddered for a moment.
"Don't move, just a moment," he instructed in a more ordinary tone. Then he bent and lifted her trousers into place, reaching around with both hands beneath her skirts to fasten them. She raised her body from the bent posture he had held her in, as he let her skirts drop. He shook them into place again, touched her hair lightly, and stepped back as she turned to face him.
His expression was unreadable to her. His face was somewhat flushed, lips reddened, eyes bright. His dark hair curled slightly with the exertion, the whiter strands lightly scattered through it seeming to glitter. He stepped around the shelf they had stood behind and sat on an armless chair, padded rather than upholstered like the deeper chairs in the room. She followed, uncertainly.
His expression was serious as he watched her. She wasn't quite sure why, but she was moved to kneel before him, one hand outstretched to just touch his side. "You don't look happy," she said plaintively. His brow raised slightly. "You ought to be happier after having had what you wanted," she protested a little shakily.
"I enjoyed it very much," he said quietly, and his mouth quirked up at the corners a little. "But now I'm contemplating the consequences of my actions," he continued gravely.
He reached out and traced a finger lightly along the edge of her cheek, brushing back a strand of soft brown hair, that had partially escaped its confinement.
"As I've given you all of my names, perhaps you'll give me yours?" he inquired lightly.
She froze, in sudden hurt, and pulled away from him. "You..." She seemed to have difficulty drawing enough breath to speak, and stood. "You don't even know who I am!" she accused.
A wry lift of an eyebrow, and his reply, "You won't tell me?"
At last tears prickled, but she turned away, and she held them back somehow. "I suppose my reputation will be safer, if even the man who's had me doesn't know," she replied somewhat miserably.
He did not reply. She swallowed, and after a moment or two, turned to face him again. He gazed back at her somewhat expressionlessly. Then ventured "What if there is," a pause, "issue?"
She felt as if she turned red, and then white, as she contemplated what he was asking. "Well, ah," she began, and then she replied defiantly, "I know very well who you are! Even if I did not know all of your names. So if there is... is a result of our actions, I can come to you." After another little pause she asked hesitantly, "Unless you are in the habit of turning pregnant women from your doorstep?" And she declared a little angrily, "Which if you do such things, and then do so, that would make you an utter cad! And I have never heard that you are a cad?" she added uncertainly.
He tilted his head and inquired softly, "Perhaps no one dares say so, out of respect for my wealth and title?"
She frowned at him, prettily, but unconsciously so. "No, I don't think so," she replied after a moment. "For everyone says old Duke Pembroke is a cad, and he has wealth and title and is invited everywhere... but everyone still calls him a cad." This last was uttered more confidently.
A smile teased the corners of Lord Waverly's mouth. "I have never turned a woman from my doorstep." His look turned serious again. "So I shall expect to hear from you, within a month or two, " he stood, "if there is... any result from our actions. Don't wait too long."
"Alright," was her subdued reply.
He stepped toward her and attempted to draw her hand over his arm. "We should return before we are missed."
She laughed awkwardly, and withdrew her hand. "I won't be missed. And, and even if I am, you have brought me to the library." Half laugh, half sob. "It's the first place anyone would come looking for me," she said in response to his look.
"I see," he replied.
"It's smaller than I expected," she said.
The eyebrow flicked upward again. "It's not a small library," he refuted.
"No," she replied, "but this house is so very large and grand, I always assumed the library would be bigger."
A smile quirked at his mouth. "I see," he said again, and then he frowned. "Then if you wish to stay here, I shall return alone, that we not be missed together."
She nodded and turned away from him. And swallowed, the tears were prickling her for release more fiercely once again.
Suddenly he stepped up to her, wrapped his arms about her and squeezed tightly. "It was lovely. Thank you," he said softly against her ear. And then he released her and was out the library door before she had turned.
The tears which had been about to spill, faded into a puzzled numb sort of feeling. And uncertain, of anything, she turned toward the bookshelves out of habit.
He gave her a wicked grin and reached out, spun her about and clasped an arm around her waist. "This," he said softly against her ear. His other hand fumbled between them briefly, and then he lifted her skirts from behind. He pinned them by pressing forward against her, and slid his other hand around and beneath the front of her skirt to the trouser fastenings. Suddenly realizing what was about to occur she knew she ought to protest or resist but found herself frozen, limbs lethargic with shock. Still she managed to force a word, "wait," out as her trousers slid to the floor. He didn't wait, instead he pressed her forward and lifted her a little with his arm. He took her then, and all she could think was, how odd this feels, and I thought it would hurt more from what my sister's said. For in truth, the sudden pressure and piercing had been somewhat lost in the shock of the event. After a few moments, he said quietly, and somewhat uncertainly, "There is, a bit of blood?" And somehow she found herself laughing shakily against his arm. "Well... well, there would be? Wouldn't there?" she asked. There was no immediate response, nor did he pause in his motions. "This isn't how I imagined..." and 'sans wedding,' she added in her thoughts a little desperately. "In fact none of this is how I imagined it would go. You, you didn't even laugh! Just raised an eyebrow and said 'trousers?' " A breathless little silence passed and then he said, "I'm sorry." He asked her quietly, "You're not resisting?" Nor was he stopping. "Well," she said uncertainly, "well I suppose I might have fought you if I had realized quicker. Or I could call for help, but, but I did agree to lift my skirts for you, in public, at the dinner table no less..." she trailed off. "I, I rather think that any rescuer would feel that I am getting exactly what I deserved," this last came out almost as a sob, but not quite, for though tears seemed distant her breath felt short. She felt strange, but she thought it ought to feel bad, and was confused that it did not. "If, if you're going to do this much, won't you at least tell me your first name?" she asked breathlessly. A pause. "No one but my mother has called me by my first name in years, does it matter?" he asked. "It does to me!" Elizabeth protested. "Mark." "What?" "My first name is Mark." She found herself laughing again. And he lowered her enough that her feet were flat against the floor again. "Seriously? Your name is Mark?" She tried to glance back and see his face, but the position was too awkward. "Yes," he said, his tone somewhat offended. "I have other names if you would prefer." "No, no, Mark is fine." She paused, "But I should like to hear the others if you don't mind?" A rather breathless reply, "Mark Anthony Saint George Adrian Waverly." "Adrian alone" she said without explanation, and continued in the strange breathless half whisper, "so one of your names is Saint?" "Highly inappropriate, I agree," he panted. And then he groaned, and pulled her tight against him, and shuddered for a moment. "Don't move, just a moment," he instructed in a more ordinary tone. Then he bent and lifted her trousers into place, reaching around with both hands beneath her skirts to fasten them. She raised her body from the bent posture he had held her in, as he let her skirts drop. He shook them into place again, touched her hair lightly, and stepped back as she turned to face him. His expression was unreadable to her. His face was somewhat flushed, lips reddened, eyes bright. His dark hair curled slightly with the exertion, the whiter strands lightly scattered through it seeming to glitter. He stepped around the shelf they had stood behind and sat on an armless chair, padded rather than upholstered like the deeper chairs in the room. She followed, uncertainly. His expression was serious as he watched her. She wasn't quite sure why, but she was moved to kneel before him, one hand outstretched to just touch his side. "You don't look happy," she said plaintively. His brow raised slightly. "You ought to be happier after having had what you wanted," she protested a little shakily. "I enjoyed it very much," he said quietly, and his mouth quirked up at the corners a little. "But now I'm contemplating the consequences of my actions," he continued gravely. He reached out and traced a finger lightly along the edge of her cheek, brushing back a strand of soft brown hair, that had partially escaped its confinement. "As I've given you all of my names, perhaps you'll give me yours?" he inquired lightly. She froze, in sudden hurt, and pulled away from him. "You..." She seemed to have difficulty drawing enough breath to speak, and stood. "You don't even know who I am!" she accused. A wry lift of an eyebrow, and his reply, "You won't tell me?" At last tears prickled, but she turned away, and she held them back somehow. "I suppose my reputation will be safer, if even the man who's had me doesn't know," she replied somewhat miserably. He did not reply. She swallowed, and after a moment or two, turned to face him again. He gazed back at her somewhat expressionlessly. Then ventured "What if there is," a pause, "issue?" She felt as if she turned red, and then white, as she contemplated what he was asking. "Well, ah," she began, and then she replied defiantly, "I know very well who you are! Even if I did not know all of your names. So if there is... is a result of our actions, I can come to you." After another little pause she asked hesitantly, "Unless you are in the habit of turning pregnant women from your doorstep?" And she declared a little angrily, "Which if you do such things, and then do so, that would make you an utter cad! And I have never heard that you are a cad?" she added uncertainly. He tilted his head and inquired softly, "Perhaps no one dares say so, out of respect for my wealth and title?" She frowned at him, prettily, but unconsciously so. "No, I don't think so," she replied after a moment. "For everyone says old Duke Pembroke is a cad, and he has wealth and title and is invited everywhere... but everyone still calls him a cad." This last was uttered more confidently. A smile teased the corners of Lord Waverly's mouth. "I have never turned a woman from my doorstep." His look turned serious again. "So I shall expect to hear from you, within a month or two, " he stood, "if there is... any result from our actions. Don't wait too long." "Alright," was her subdued reply. He stepped toward her and attempted to draw her hand over his arm. "We should return before we are missed." She laughed awkwardly, and withdrew her hand. "I won't be missed. And, and even if I am, you have brought me to the library." Half laugh, half sob. "It's the first place anyone would come looking for me," she said in response to his look. "I see," he replied. "It's smaller than I expected," she said. The eyebrow flicked upward again. "It's not a small library," he refuted. "No," she replied, "but this house is so very large and grand, I always assumed the library would be bigger." A smile quirked at his mouth. "I see," he said again, and then he frowned. "Then if you wish to stay here, I shall return alone, that we not be missed together." She nodded and turned away from him. And swallowed, the tears were prickling her for release more fiercely once again. Suddenly he stepped up to her, wrapped his arms about her and squeezed tightly. "It was lovely. Thank you," he said softly against her ear. And then he released her and was out the library door before she had turned. The tears which had been about to spill, faded into a puzzled numb sort of feeling. And uncertain, of anything, she turned toward the bookshelves out of habit.
