by Merry Farmer
“What are you doing idling here?” her mother demanded. “You have much to do.”
“Unhand her,” Lady Stanhope stood and rounded on Lavinia’s mother.
“I beg your pardon,” her mother snapped, eyes wide.
“Lady Helm deserves far better than to be manhandled by a mere baroness.” Lady Stanhope fixed her mother with a look so full of righteousness that it made the handsome angles of her face seem almost demonic.
Lavinia’s mother gaped, her jaw flapping, speechless, for a change. It took Lavinia a few seconds more to realize that “Lady Helm” referred to her. “Good Lord,” she gasped as it hit her. She outranked her mother by a great deal now.
“I’m simply attempting to guide my daughter through her new duties,” her mother finally managed to say. She turned to Lavinia. “You need to direct a maid to gather and pack your things and to move you from your current room into Lord Helm’s room.”
“Good Lord,” Lavinia exclaimed again, her eyes growing rounder. Was that what Armand expected of her?
“There’s no need to worry,” Marigold intervened, pausing in her play with James. “As it happens, Lavinia’s room is only two doors down from Armand’s. She can keep her things right where they are and use her current room as a dressing room.”
Lavinia stared hard at her friend. Armand was just two doors down from her? That seemed highly irregular for a house party. Almost as though her friend had hoped something would happen. She’d walked into a larger trap than she’d thought.
“I think I need to lie down,” she said, rising. She started for the house, but her mother stopped her.
“We have important matters that need to be discussed,” she said, fixing Lavinia with a peculiar look. “Matters of an intimate nature.”
Lavinia winced, the headache she was about to fake coming on for real.
“Perhaps there are better people present to have that particular conversation with the viscountess,” Lady Stanhope said, her lips curling into a wicked grin.
“Do you mean a harlot who has opened her legs for more men than even Her Majesty’s Exchequer can count?” Lavinia’s mother snapped.
Marigold clapped her hands over James’s ears and cleared her throat, staring angrily at both women in turn.
“Better that than to receive a horrific miseducation from a woman whose fruit has withered and died on the vine,” Lady Stanhope fired back.
Lavinia’s mother shrieked in offense. “Why you vile, disease-riddled, barely better than a common—”
“Say it,” Lady Stanhope dared her, crossing her arms and grinning as though she’d scored game-winning points.
Lavinia’s mother pressed her lips together, her round, red face and her high-pitched hum making her look and sound like a kettle about to boil. At last, she squeaked, “Whore.”
“I’m leaving,” Lavinia burst, turning and fleeing before anyone else could stop her or use her as a pawn in their own wars and nonsense.
She’d made it back into the house before realizing Mariah had come with her, little Peter in her arms. “This hasn’t been the best of days for you, has it?” she asked.
“No,” Lavinia sighed, turning a corner to mount the stairs that led to the hall where her—and Armand’s—room was.
“Well, allow me to help you by saying this much,” Mariah went on, reaching Lavinia’s side. Her lips twitched slightly, and she rushed on with, “Men are turgid and women are viscous, and if you let it, the marriage bed can be the greatest adventure of your life.”
Lavinia paused on the landing to stare at her friend, utterly baffled. “I beg your pardon?”
Mariah giggled, her cheeks going pink. “It’s what my mother told me before my wedding,” she said as they continued up the next flight of stairs at a slower pace. “She described the male member as ‘turgid’ and the corresponding female parts as ‘viscous’ when advising me what to expect on my wedding night.”
Lavinia blinked rapidly. “Well, that’s…certainly…interesting.” They reached the hall and continued on toward Lavinia’s room. She shook off her bafflement at the description of marital relations and said, “Elaine has been writing to me all summer long with shockingly explicit details of how much she enjoys married life. She’s rather prone to indiscretion, I’m afraid.”
“Is she?” Mariah laughed. “I only met her briefly on a few occasions, but I can certainly see how that would be true.”
“So none of you need fear that I am completely ignorant about how a man and a woman make love.” She paused in front of the door to her room, her cheeks flaring hot. “I’m going to have a difficult time looking Lord Waltham in the eye next time I see them.”
“At least someone has been honest with you about things,” Mariah said, shifting her baby in her arms.
Lavinia shook her head. “Knowledge is one thing. Knowing how to apply it to a situation in which you are expected to do—” she swallowed, “—those things with a man you barely know, a man who likely resents the way in which you ended up in his bed in the first place….”
Mariah rested a hand on Lavinia’s shoulder. “I’m sure if you asked, Armand would put off consummating the marriage.”
“What’s the point?” Lavinia sighed. “If my mother suspects everything is not exactly as she wants it to be, she’d likely bring a chair into our bedroom and watch to be sure an heir to the coveted viscountancy is conceived post haste.”
Mariah made a squeamish sound and exchanged a horrified look with baby Peter, who chose just that moment to raise his head and look at his mother. The timing was almost comical enough to make Lavinia smile.
“No,” Lavinia repeated with a resigned sigh. “I’ll go to my husband’s bed tonight and do what British wives have been required to do since William the Conqueror claimed England as his own. And in the morning, I’ll pick up whatever pieces are left of my dreams and figure out how to piece together a future.”
Chapter 7
The only thing more torturous than supper that evening, with Lady Prior gloating and implying at every turn that Armand—her son-in-law—would certainly provide an even finer feast, better decorations, and more interesting guests, was the teasing he received when the gentlemen retired to the study for cigars and brandy.
“I bet India’s the furthest thing from your mind now,” Peter told him, slapping him on the back and handing him a large tumbler of brandy. “You’ve got far more pleasant duties to attend to now.”
“I haven’t given up on India,” Armand grumbled, taking the glass and gulping its contents. In fact, he’d sent off a letter to Dr. Maqsood that afternoon, informing him of his marriage and asking if there was any way to delay his departure for Lahore.
“What’s this about India?” Rupert asked, breaking away from the small group of male guests closer to his age who had started a game of cards to join the older men.
“Dr. Pearson here was contemplating running away from home to cure cholera on the subcontinent,” Malcolm said, fixing Katya’s son with a particularly intimidating stare.
“Oh,” Rupert said with an uneasy laugh. “But I suppose that’s out of the question, now that you have a wife,” he said to Armand, then darted a look in Malcolm’s direction. “A man’s first and most important responsibility is to his wife. It is his foremost concern to keep her happy and healthy.”
“You don’t say?” Malcolm narrowed his eyes at the young man.
On any other day, Armand would have been tempted to find amusement in the confrontation. They all knew that Rupert had a spark in his eye where Malcolm’s daughter, Cecelia, was concerned. Armand suspected that was the reason Cece had stayed in London with friends instead of joining the rest of them in Wiltshire, at Malcolm’s insistence. But in that moment, being lectured on the responsibilities of a husband by a man who wasn’t even twenty was not how Armand wanted to spend his evening.
“My primary responsibility is to my patients,” he said. “I took an oath to the effect. Excuse me.”
> He stepped away before Peter could continue to tease him or Malcolm could glower at him. He valued his friends, but they were just as responsible for landing him in a situation he didn’t want to be in as Lady Prior, and at the moment, he wanted nothing to do with them. He set his tumbler of brandy on a table as he crossed the room to where Alex was brooding near one of the windows.
“I’m going to bed,” Armand told his friend, not caring if he was being rude. “Just thought you’d want to know in case of any midnight strategy sessions.”
Alex glanced up at him with a troubled frown. “It had to have been Miller, but why?”
Armand blinked at the incongruous change of subject. “Who took the letter?”
“Yes,” Alex repeated. “But what would he want with it? Miller is an incompetent country doctor. He has nothing to do with politics. Why would he steal a letter bound for Gladstone?”
As much as he knew he should care, the only emotion Armand could conjure up over the matter was jealousy that a bumbling moron like Miller would still be allowed to practice medicine when he was blocked from it at every turn. “Perhaps it was a genuine mistake. What would Miller even do with a letter like that?”
“I don’t know,” Alex sighed.
Armand paused for a moment, wishing there was anything he could do. But his whole life seemed caught up in the webs of other people’s machinations, leaving him hanging and helpless.
“I’m going to bed,” he repeated, then turned and marched out of the room.
Irritation seemed to follow him as he made his way through the halls of Winterberry Park. The sensation of being a lion trapped in a cage was utterly unhelpful, but he couldn’t escape the frustration. He’d had a clear vision of what his life would be. He would help people, care for the sick, and make them well. He wasn’t supposed to be a viscount or a politician or a husband. But every time he came close to escaping his circumstances, another door slammed.
In echo of his thoughts, after entering his bedroom, he slammed the door shut. A sharp, feminine gasp from the bed startled him as acutely as a gunshot. Lavinia sat on one side of the bed, pillows propped up behind her, a book in her hands.
“Good heavens. What are you doing here?” he asked as soon as he recovered from his shock. His heart continued to race, though.
“It’s our wedding night,” Lavinia answered, her voice shaking and her face turning beet red. As she closed her book and set it aside, Armand could see her hands shaking.
Bloody hell. She didn’t actually expect him to claim his marital rights over her, did she? Not that the comfort of a willing pair of arms around him wouldn’t be exactly what he needed to soothe his disgruntled spirit.
“I’m not sure the events of the day truly qualify as a joyous wedding day,” he said, moving to sit on the bed so he could remove his shoes.
“Don’t let Mama hear you say that,” she said.
He let out a wry grunt before he could stop himself. “Sorry,” he said over his shoulder. “I don’t mean to disparage your mother.” Although, in fact, he did.
“She deserves it,” Lavinia said with a sigh, surprising him. Armand tossed his shoes aside and twisted to face her. “My only consolation in this whole farce is that I now outrank her,” she said, picking at the coverlet.
She had lovely hands, small with long, narrow fingers. A sudden memory of her playing the piano and singing at an event Alex had hosted in his London home hit him. She played well and had a pretty voice. She looked quite fetching with her vibrant, coppery hair loose around her shoulders as well. But her face was so sad. Her soft, angelic features were all turned down, as if she didn’t want to be where she was any more than he did. Everything about her touched his heart in ways he didn’t understand.
He rose from the bed, crossing to the wardrobe and throwing it open to stave off the rush of desire he felt for her. “You don’t have to sleep in here with me tonight if you don’t want to,” he said without looking at her, unbuttoning his coat and shrugging out of it, then hanging it in the wardrobe. He unbuttoned his waistcoat next. “Just because we’ve been forced to wed doesn’t mean we’re forced to bed.”
“I considered that,” she said. “But there doesn’t seem to be any point in delaying the inevitable.”
He removed his waistcoat and hung it as well, then went to work on his tie. “There is every point if you aren’t ready for….” He glanced toward her and knew she understood without him having to embarrass them both by finishing the sentence.
Lavinia shrugged, her gaze glued to the coverlet, her cheeks like two ripe apples, ready to be picked. “I’m as ready now as I’ll ever be.”
Armand doubted that. Instinct told him she’d be far readier to be intimate with him if they’d had weeks or months to get to know each other better. But she was the only person in all of Winterberry Park who he didn’t feel was laughing at him or making unreasonable demands of him. She was as much a victim as he was. He debated his options as he took his nightshirt from the wardrobe and crossed into the screen that shielded a chamber pot and a washstand containing a basin, a full pitcher of water, and his toiletries. It gave him a moment to think as he washed up and quickly brushed his teeth. If he was going to go through with a wedding night consummation, at least he could make himself physically less repugnant.
Lavinia had gone back to reading her book, but she gasped a second time when Armand came out from behind the screen. He couldn’t help but feel that he was sailing into another disaster as he climbed into bed with her.
She set her book aside, then faced him. “All right. Tell me what I’m supposed to do.”
A wry grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You’re supposed to live the life you want to live. You’re supposed to follow your passions and pursue the things that interest you instead of being pushed around by an ambitious mother and tricked by manipulative friends.”
She stared at him, then blinked. “No, I mean what am I supposed to do to make love to you?”
Intuition told him she understood he’d been joking, but that she was too overwhelmed to be anything but dead serious. He sighed. “Are you absolutely certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you want to consummate this marriage, such as it is, tonight?”
She lowered her eyes and bit her lip. Her brow furrowed just enough to hint at how intelligent she truly was. “I don’t want to exist in a state of limbo,” she said at last, looking up at him with what felt to Armand like a great deal of effort, and an even greater amount of courage. “If I’m going to be your wife, then I should be your wife fully. I don’t want to give anyone the opportunity to question or conjecture, or to tell me I’m not really what I am.”
Her words lodged deep inside of him. They settled in the part of him that didn’t know if he was a physician or a viscount, a healer or a politician. They whispered to him that, if all else failed, at least he could know he was a husband.
“All right, then,” he said, feeling as though he was letting go of something he’d been holding onto with all his might. “Let’s just rearrange these pillows and lie down. There’s really not much to the whole thing.”
It was another white lie. There could be a great deal to sexual intimacy, but for the time being, his only concern was hurting her as little as possible.
Lavinia seemed to grasp at least the basics of what she needed to do. She shifted to her back and didn’t fly into a panic when he positioned himself above her. They both still wore their nightclothes, which, he hoped, would work to their benefit to minimize embarrassment.
“Are you, um, aware of the mechanics?” he asked once he was settled between her legs, his face less than a foot from hers.
“Yes,” she answered with a quick nod, resting her hands on his sides.
He couldn’t help but be aroused by their proximity and the faintly floral scent of her skin, but his body’s reactions hadn’t felt so awkward since he was a very young man dealing with his first public erection.
“There might be a littl
e bit of pain,” he said, heating with embarrassment as much as passion.
“I know,” she said.
“If I can make it less, I will.”
“I trust you.”
His breath caught in his throat and his heart thundered in his chest. She did trust him, even though she had no reason to. He could see it in her eyes, in the innocent way she looked up at him. The weight of the responsibility he felt toward her pressed down on him, but it didn’t feel as burdensome as it could have. She was his wife, she was beautiful, intelligent, and innocent, and she trusted him.
He dipped down to kiss her. It seemed as good a place as any to start. The last thing he wanted to do was overwhelm her by groping her in intimate places, but a kiss, gentle and reassuring, could start enough of a fire to see them through what needed to be done. Blessedly, she responded with openness, letting him lead the way and following willingly. Her hands moved along his back as he tasted her, filling him with an overwhelming sense of acceptance.
He brushed a hand down her side, reaching for the hem of her nightgown and inching it up. Every tiny movement on his part seemed to cause a reaction in her. She tensed, then relaxed, held her breath, then let it out. In spite of his determination not to take liberties with her, he kissed her neck, nibbling at her ear, and slipped his hand under the bunched fabric of her nightgown to test what the petal-soft skin of her breast would feel like against his palm. Each tiny advance left him aching for more, but he forced himself to hold back. It was the most difficult thing he’d ever done, though. Her body fit so well against his. Her unschooled reactions and the innocent catch in her breath as he tugged his nightshirt out of the way of everything important had him as hard as a rock in record time.
He wanted to explore every inch of her body with his hands and mouth. He wanted to suckle her breasts in ways that would leave her panting with pleasure. He wanted to part her legs and taste the sweetness of her honey in ways that would make her come with thundering force, but fear of scaring her off forever kept him strictly in check. The greatest liberty he allowed himself was sliding a hand between her folds to make certain she was ready for him. He couldn’t stop a groan of satisfaction when his fingers found her wet and ready.