Tempesta di Amore by Holly

Chapter 6

Author's Notes: I have been advised to warn my readers that this chapter is angst-heavy. Having said that, I assume most of my readers know my feelings on Spuffy by now, hopefully enough to trust me.

Tempesta di Amore won an award at Love’s Last Glimpse for Best Fantasy. Thank you SO MUCH to whoever nominated me. I’ve never, ever written a fantasy before…so this…well, it stunned the hell out of me. Thank you guys so much!

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Once, when she was very young, Buffy shared a bed with a girl that might have been her cousin. It was in that hazy period following the death of her father—the death that had rendered her an orphan—while the house that had been theirs was overrun with people who claimed that they were family. People she’d never met before; people she hadn’t seen since the disbursement of what little wealth her family had possessed. In the rush of those cold, lonely days, Buffy had shared a bed at least once. She hadn’t liked it. The girl had shoved at her, kicked at her, and hogged the blankets.

It was an isolated memory. It was something she hadn’t bothered remembering until now.

She was in bed, naked, with a man. She was in bed, naked, with William de Winter.

And it was all right, because she was his wife. She was Mrs. Elizabeth de Winter. She wore a wedding band on her finger.

It was all right because she was the one who loved him.

Buffy honestly didn’t know what she thought would happen when she lost her virginity. Truth be told, she hadn’t given the wedding night much consideration until the wedding itself was over. Until the magistrate pronounced her the wife of William de Winter, and the ceremony came to an end.

No one had ever told her about lovemaking, and Buffy honestly didn’t know when she’d learned the mechanics. It was before she’d met Mrs. Kendall; perhaps in a book she shouldn’t have looked in, or during a conversation with a girl she’d known at the agency. Or perhaps every young woman eventually reached the point where they simply knew how to make love. It was intrinsic. After all, no one had been there to explain it to Eve; she’d figured it out all on her own.

She felt different. Changed. She felt that their marriage bed had truly transformed her from awkward, meek Elizabeth ‘Buffy’ Summers into Mrs. Elizabeth ‘Buffy’ de Winter, and perhaps that was hoping too much. Any second, she expected her eyes would open for real and she would find herself in a room that wasn’t hers, with a man who didn’t know her.

The past few days had been a stressful, surreal blur. And now she was in uncharted waters. Whatever shell of a life that she’d known before had been completely eradicated.

How did I ever come to be here?

William’s back was to her. She was no longer encased in his warmth. No, his warmth had slipped away, leaving her cold and divided on her side of the bed. She wanted to touch him but didn’t know if she should—if he would react adversely to feeling her hands on him uninvited.

She was his wife, though. Wives touched their husbands.

The ache between her thighs was foreign, and Buffy had yet to decide if she liked it. The intrusion of him into her body had both ached and split her apart with bliss beyond bliss. She’d never thought it possible to be so connected to someone—even when she’d haphazardly fantasized what lovemaking might feel like. It was always something detached and distant—something that would always happen to other people, and never to her.

Buffy didn’t know what she’d thought would happen. Perhaps she’d daydreamed that William would open up to her as he never had in Monte Carlo. Perhaps she’d hoped that he would fall to his knees and swear his undying love for her. Perhaps she’d imagined replacing Drusilla as the woman who owned his heart. All aspirations were foolish; Buffy knew this now. But she had him. She shared his bed now—no one else.

A slice of cold stabbed at her, and she clutched the comforter tighter against her chest. At least, she hoped no one else. It wasn’t an uncommon practice for men and even women to keep lovers, as Mrs. Kendall had warned her. Buffy’s stomach twisted and she shivered hard. No, William wouldn’t betray her. He wasn’t the sort of man to break a vow. And even so, if it was his intention to be unfaithful, why bother marrying her in the first place? He was a widower, and society had a way of turning a blind eye and keeping gossip behind closed doors, rather than out in the open. Mrs. Kendall had taught her that there was no family of wealth or importance that did not come without its share of scandal.

Icy fingers of dread were slowly closing around her heart.

She’d leapt into this so quickly and with such enthusiasm. And yet, despite her love for William, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was alone.

Everything had been so…pleasant. Not romantic. Not passionate. Just pleasant. They’d gotten married in an ordinary courtroom. She’d worn an unremarkable dress and held an unremarkable bouquet of equally unremarkable flowers. The kiss that William had brushed across her lips had singed her nerves with heat, but it was far from the sort of kisses that she saw on movie-picture shows, or read about in books. Beyond the warmth of his mouth against hers—and the sparks that had blazed across her skin—it was nothing but a kiss. A simple kiss. A kiss that Buffy was sure meant more to her than it ever could to him.

He’d treated her to whatever she liked. He bought her clothes, jewelry, hats—anything that she commented on, or admired for any length of time. He showered her with gifts, and while her girlish heart had been delighted, there was a part of her that couldn’t shake the feeling that she was just a child playing dress-up. That William was buying her whatever she wanted, dressing her in clothes that quite obviously could never wholly belong to her—in some grand effort to make her more than she was.

He’d treated her to better dining than she’d hoped to enjoy. They had eaten, and then he took her to an opera. The distance between them didn’t improve, but Buffy forced her thoughts away. After all, she was the woman on his arm. She was the one sitting beside him at Il ritorno d'Ulisse in patria. She was the one with him—distance be damned.

Buffy had never considered music a living thing. She loved listening to it, and had very much enjoyed the piano lessons she’d had as a child. However, until tonight, until she’d sat in that opera house, she’d never known that music could live.

William had handed her a handkerchief when she wasn’t looking. Her eyes had fallen to the royal embroidery in the corner. Purple, elegantly hand stitched letters. WdW.

William de Winter.

“I’m glad you enjoyed the opera,” he told her later.

“Enjoyed?” she replied, her voice still thick with tears, her eyes damp with awe. “I’ve never heard anything so lovely in my whole life.”

William had chuckled at that and made some comment about how young she was and how she would constantly be discovering things that she’d never heard or seen or experienced in her whole life. Furthermore, if she allowed herself to be surprised each time, she’d die young of a heart-attack.

“Do not laugh at me for my age,” she retorted, indignant.

He’d lifted her hand to his mouth, caressing the back with his lips. “My dear,” he replied, his voice both heavy and light at the same time in a way that boggled her young mind. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

It wasn’t until they’d arrived at their room that night that Buffy had remembered what was supposed to happen between men and women on their wedding night. William hadn’t acted like a man who wanted to make love all day, though fairly, she didn’t know what a man who wanted to make love acted like. And he was old enough to have experienced pleasures of the flesh time and time again. She didn’t doubt that each time he’d made love with Drusilla that the earth, to him, at least, had moved. That every time he’d touched his beloved wife, he’d inspired the heavens to sing.

Thus, engaging in carnal relations with his new, inexperienced wife likely meant little to him. But it was the first time that Buffy would ever be touched by a man, and it meant the world to her.

She’d sat, awkward and horribly self-aware, on the bed as William moved around their grandiose hotel room. He went about disrobing as though she wasn’t there. As though he had no wife at all. As though his life hadn’t changed. If he sensed her displacement or nervousness, he didn’t comment, or even react. It wasn’t until his fingers touched the first button of his dress-shirt that he turned his gaze to her.

What she saw in the ocean of his eyes was frightening and endless.

“This is new for you, isn’t it?” he asked, perplexing her with his bluntness.

Buffy blinked. “Yes,” she replied slowly, her heart in her throat. “I…forgive me, I have never…”

A small smile graced his lips. “Sweetling, your innocence requires no forgiveness.”

It was impossible for Buffy to tell if he was laughing at her. His tone bewildered her entirely. It wasn’t a heartfelt confession. He hadn’t dropped to his knees and bathed her skin in kisses. He hadn’t asked that she remove her dress. He hadn’t done anything.

“You really are pretty,” he said then, surprising her even more. But even then, his voice lacked the passion she craved.

Flowers were pretty. Landscapes were pretty. And while Buffy had never truly aspired to be anything more than plain, she’d always dreamed that the man she’d marry—whether in truth or in her fantasies—would find her utterly beautiful.

William thought she was pretty. It was better than nothing.

“Do you not want to do this?” he asked the next second, making her eyes go wide.

“What?”

“If you don’t want to…I don’t want to make you do anything that you don’t wish to do.” Unceremoniously, he dropped to his knees before her so that her eyes had nowhere to hide. He took her hands in his, caressing her knuckles with his soft lips in a way that made her insides flutter. “This has all happened so fast. Your life has changed so fast. Don’t think that I don’t know that. When you come to my bed, I want your mind with me.”

The words escaped her lips before she could help them, and the flinch that rolled down her spine would remain with her for the rest of her days. “I want to please you.”

William’s mouth tugged a grin that he didn’t allow to spread to his face. “You please me, love,” he replied, surprising her the next second when he brushed a kiss across her chin. “You have done more for me than you can ever know. And I know this has been overwhelming for you.”

Overwhelming was an understatement.

“Are you having regrets?” Buffy asked. “Do you wish that you hadn’t married me?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

For whatever reason, that wasn’t the answer she’d expected. Then again, they had only been married for a few hours. Perhaps it was too soon for regrets.

“Are you having regrets?” William replied in kind, his brows hitting his hairline. “Your life has changed far more than mine has.”

“If I were not with you, I would be with Mrs. Kendall.”

He chuckled, drumming his long fingers against her collarbone. An unfamiliar emotion crossed his face, and his eyes dropped, appraising her in a way that she’d never been appraised. Buffy shifted and inhaled deeply, feeling at once entirely self-conscious.

“Buffy, look at me.”

She hadn’t realized that she was staring at the hemline of her dress until he issued the request. “William?”

A small smile flitted across his lips. “Good girl.”

“What?”

“You called me William.”

Her cheeks burned. “Well…we’re married now,” she said, her voice cracking as though she expected him to refute a fact. As though she expected him to tell her that, no, of course they weren’t married. The entire day had been an elaborate hoax, and shame on her for falling for a girlish dream so readily. So willingly. She was such a laugh. Such a little amusement, and while he would never dream of truly marrying her, he did hope to keep her around just for the sake of entertainment.

Of course, such fears were preposterous, but that knowledge didn’t make them any less present.

William just smiled. “We are married,” he said softly. “Buffy, if you don’t want—”

“I do.”

She was grateful when he didn’t make things worse for her by forcing her to elaborate. “You’re sure?”

Buffy swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes.”

His hands dropped to her shoulders. “You’re trembling,” he said, but it wasn’t an admonition. “It will hurt the first time.”

“It will?” The idea of pain set her body aflame with an entirely different sort of anxiety. Romance novels had certainly never mentioned pain. Nor had Mrs. Kendall. Then again, Buffy reflected with an inner snicker, the old woman likely couldn’t remember a time before she’d lost her virginity. “How badly?”

William sighed and cast a hand through his chocolate-brown locks. “I’m not sure, love,” he replied honestly, if not repentantly. “Men don’t…it doesn’t hurt for us the first time.”

Her nose wrinkled. “Well, that hardly seems fair.”

“Fair or not, that’s the way it is.”

“You don’t know how badly it will hurt?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. All I can offer is…I will be gentle with you. I’ll go as slowly as you like. If it hurts too much, tell me, and we’ll stop.”

Something in his eyes told her that stopping would be easier said than done, but that could have been in her imagination. But even then, the idea that she could make a man like William de Winter fight for control, even if he never lost it, did little to scare her away from her decision. Not making love tonight wouldn’t make it hurt any less. And, more importantly, even with as terrified as she was, the larger part of her wanted it. She wanted him. She wanted to know what lovemaking felt like, and at that instant, she forgot that she had the rest of her life to explore this new, forbidden world of sensuality. To explore William. At that instant, the world might as well have ended with sunrise.

When William was assured of her decision, he pressed a small, nearly chaste kiss against her lips. He continued disrobing methodically, though he stopped in consideration before he removed what Buffy could only assume was the male version of underwear. Still, with as scandalized as she’d felt the morning that she’d burst in on him to announce that Mrs. Kendall was leaving, little could compare to how she felt now. She kept on edge, expecting him to send her from the room and leave him to his privacy. But he did no such thing. Instead, when he was almost nude, he knelt before her again, and carefully began to finger the buttons and clasps of her own attire.

The feel of male hands undressing her for the first time was something she would, assuredly, never forget. And when the last stitch of clothing fell away, when the chilly air around them touched her naked skin, when she felt his eyes roaming over her imperfect body, her legs at last wobbled and she collapsed against the bed before her strength could abandon her completely. Her left arm shot lengthwise across her breasts, her other hand quickly covering the forbidden area between her legs. William just watched, licking his lips, and, without saying a word, stripped away his last piece of clothing.

Buffy closed her eyes and turned away, red-faced. This was simply too surreal.

Still, he said nothing.

Oh God. What if he was disgusted with her? What if she was behaving so poorly that he rethought the entire marriage? But then, how exactly was she supposed to act? What was she supposed to do? Should she ask him questions? Should she ask him what to do?

“Buffy.” The mattress dipped as he sat beside her, a warm hand circling the wrist that guarded her breasts. “Buffy?”

His tone was so soft. So calm. So gentle. It covered her like a blanket, and she felt swallowed in warmth.

“Buffy, love, please look at me.”

Her eyes opened simply by the will of his voice. She refused to look to his most private area. Simply knowing that he was sitting naked on the bed while she was also naked on the bed was enough to make her melt through the mattress. However, once their gazes clashed, she found herself relaxing. There was no condemnation or disappointment in his eyes, only concerned understanding.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said softly, coaxing her arm away from her breasts. “There’s nothing to hide from here. It’s only me. It’s you and me, Buffy. No one else.”

Almost a year ago, Mrs. Kendall had scowled and tossed a novel entitled Gone with the Wind into the nearest trash-bin, muttering something about vulgar Yanks and their politics, alongside several other statements that she hadn’t understood. However, the novel had been making noise ever since its release, and Buffy knew that British actress Vivien Leigh had recently upset Americans by winning the role of the novel’s protagonist for its cinematic portrayal. Thus, she had diligently fished the novel from the trash-bin and, within a week, had it completely devoured. And while much of it had gone over her head, the passion between Rhett and Scarlett could not be denied. It was that passion that had sustained and fueled her most private thoughts. It was that passion that she craved.

William was only half-right. There was pain, but surprisingly, not much. Perhaps she was too nervous to feel pain. All she knew was that somehow, she was under him, gasping and clawing at his back like a heathen. She felt split in half, but united at the same time. His invasion of her body was wonderful. He remained within her, still, for the longest time, his face buried in the crook of her neck, his ragged breaths crashing against her skin. For a second, Buffy thought he was trembling, but quickly realized that she was shaking too hard to determine whether or not he was shaken at all.

He asked her if she was all right, and she said she was. He asked her if he felt good, and she said he did.

But he never looked her in the eyes. Not once. Not for one second while he was inside her did he look her in the eyes. His body rocked against hers, his fingers played against her skin, and he manipulated her over the edge of an inner explosion that no novel could have ever prepared her for. But he did so with his face buried in her throat, his words muffled unless he wanted her to hear something.

He didn’t look at her. And when the sky came back and the room around them returned, Buffy found herself tucked into his side with her head on his chest. William didn’t say anything. She felt him breathing hard. Felt the raw intimacy of his naked skin beneath her fingertips. She heard his heart pounding, and swelled with warmth when his lips brushed her forehead. And then she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

Only now she was awake. She was awake and she was no longer in William’s arms. They were both on their sides, facing away from each other. Buffy didn’t know if she had simply moved in her sleep. After all, she had only shared a bed once before. No one had ever been in the position to tell her if she moved excessively when she slept. But for some reason, she didn’t think so.

William had put distance between them. He was on his side, dreaming.

He was dreaming of the one he couldn’t have. He was dreaming of Drusilla.

Of this she was certain, for every few seconds, a moan split his lips, and he would whimper her name.

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