Derek

by Aston, Alexa

  “Come, my lady. I’m sure you’re ready for that bath,” Mary said cheerfully. “It’ll be nice to wash the dust of the road from you.”

  She allowed the maid to undress and then bathe her, making sure her hair remained pinned up. She’d washed it the night before and as long and thick as it was, she didn’t want it wet again since it took hours to dry. Mary helped her into a white, filmy night rail that Diana had gifted her with. She insisted on putting a dressing gown over it since she could see her limbs through the gauzy material. The maid unpinned Amelia’s hair and brushed it one hundred strokes, leaving it unbound.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, Mary,” Amelia said, dismissing her.

  Mary gave her a quick grin and exited the room.

  Amelia sat and then sprang to her feet, nerves eating away at her. She knew they would kiss some. Then go to the bed. Lady Merrick said Trumbull would then undress her and himself. They would touch intimately, in places that made her blush as she thought about it. The marchioness had warned her there would be brief pain during their first coupling but that it never occurred after the first time. She even warned Amelia there might be a little blood. That had been good to know. She wasn’t fond of the sight of blood. At least knowing it could occur helped her prepare herself.

  After pacing some minutes, she took a seat to await Trumbull.

  And waited. And waited.

  She thought a good hour must have passed since they’d come upstairs. How long did it take for a man to bathe? Longer than a woman? She had two brothers but they’d always merely appeared, washed and dressed. She had no idea how long that took.

  Tentatively, she went back into her dressing room and then approached the door leading to Trumbull’s. She tapped lightly on it and waited. When she got no response, she opened the door.

  He wasn’t there. He must be in his bedchamber. Was she supposed to have known to go to him? Had he been waiting on her arrival? She hated not knowing the protocol of tonight’s adventures in the bedroom and wished her new husband had kept her better informed.

  Crossing his dressing room, she went and knocked on his door. When no answer came, she took the knob and tried to turn it.

  It was locked.

  Puzzled, she knocked more loudly and called out, “Trumbull? Are you there?”

  She heard footsteps and then the lock turning. He threw open the door.

  Shock filled her. He was bare to the waist, his chest glistening as if he’d just climbed from his bath.

  Frowning, he said, “What it is?”

  “I thought . . . I mean . . . I didn’t know if I was supposed to come to you. Or you to me.”

  He smiled sardonically. “Neither. You’ve had a long day, Amelia. I know you’re tired from all the wedding nonsense and the hours in the carriage here.”

  He drew close and kissed her brow. She could feel his heat. Smell the spice of his cologne—and sweat.

  That didn’t make sense at all. Hadn’t he come up for his bath as she had?

  “Be a good girl and return to your chamber.” He started to close the door.

  “Wait!” she cried.

  Trumbull stopped. “Yes?”

  “Aren’t we . . . don’t we . . . what I mean to say is . . .”

  “No,” he said firmly. “You’re tired. Go to bed. To sleep.”

  “So . . . we aren’t going to . . . do anything?”

  “No. Not tonight.”

  Her husband closed the door. She heard his footsteps receding. Amelia stood frozen in place.

  They weren’t going to consummate their marriage tonight. Relief swept through her, followed by anger. That’s what married people did on their wedding night. Yes, she was tired. Of course, it had been a long day but still . . . she’d expected to become a true wife tonight. She tried to give Trumbull the benefit of the doubt. He was only thinking of her welfare. They could come together tomorrow, once both had rested.

  She started to turn away and decided she didn’t want that. She wanted to explore what marriage was about tonight. Now. Tired or not.

  Amelia started to knock again and then remembered she hadn’t heard Trumbull lock the door. She eased the door open and stepped into his bedchamber. One candle glowed on the far side of the room. She moved uncertainly toward it as she heard . . . something.

  Drawing closer, she could make out her husband’s silhouette. He stood next to the bed, his arms around someone who knelt upon the mattress. The two kissed passionately, their eyes closed, their hands roaming along each other’s torsos as they made satisfied noises.

  It was Viscount Birdville.

  Chapter Six

  Amelia murmured one-word responses to Mary’s questions as her maid dressed her for the day. She’d spent most of the night staring at the ceiling in the dark, dry-eyed and numb to what she’d witnessed between her husband and his bosom buddy. As Mary put the finishing touches on her hair, though, the numbness finally wore off, replaced by a rage so volatile that it took all Amelia had not to scream.

  She would confront Trumbull. Now. While the anger flowed in her veins, giving her courage which might abandon her if she waited.

  “That will be all, Mary,” she said succinctly and left the room, her steps rapid as she made her way downstairs.

  She reached the bottom floor and realized she had no idea where breakfast was being served. Fortunately, a passing footman noticed her hesitancy and offered to escort her. Entering, Amelia saw Trumbull at the head of a small table for six. To his right sat Viscount Birdville.

  She had to stop herself from smacking them both in the head.

  Taking her place at the opposite end of the table, a footman promptly set a cup of tea down for her and then returned with a plate of food. She looked at it and pushed it aside but took a few sips of tea to fortify herself.

  “Will there always be three of us in this marriage, Trumbull?” she demanded. “Or more?”

  Surprise crossed his face and he sprang to his feet.

  “Madam,” he growled, looking daggers at her.

  “You owe me an explanation as to what I saw under my own roof last night.”

  The viscount glanced lazily in her direction. “I thought you said she’d be docile, Trumbull. I don’t envy you trying to tame this one.” He went back to his eggs and sausage.

  Her husband strode toward her and jerked her from the chair, startling Amelia. He dragged her from the room, his fingers gripping her elbow. She tried to pull away and found she couldn’t. He ascended the stairs and rushed her down the hallway to her chamber. Flinging the door open, he shoved her inside.

  A maid smoothed the covers over her bed. She leaped back, fear in her eyes.

  “Leave us!” roared Trumbull and the servant hurried from the room, not making eye contact with Amelia.

  Trumbull slammed the door behind her.

  “Never, ever, speak of private affairs in front of the servants,” he warned.

  She laughed harshly. “You truly believe anything is private in a large home such as this? Servants know everything—even before you do sometimes—and talk below stairs flies faster than any gossip the ton flings about.” Amelia crossed her arms. “They know exactly what you do and when you do it.

  “And whom you do it with.”

  He looked as if he might slap her and she steeled herself for the blow. Fortunately, it never came.

  “I witnessed you with Birdville last night. Was this ever going to be a real marriage?”

  “No,” he admitted. “But it’s the marriage you’ve made, Amelia.”

  “It’s not the one I want.”

  “It may be,” he contradicted. “From your wedding day on, you’ll have no one to answer to. You have your freedom. You may come and go as you please. Do what you want with whom you wish.”

  “Why did you marry me?” she asked, her throat starting to close up as the direness of her situation began to settle in.

  “Because of Durham. We have been estranged for many years. He caught m
e—as you did—with a stable boy when I was scheduled to leave for university in a week. He flogged the boy himself and dismissed him without references. I was held down by his valet and our butler as Durham beat me senseless and then locked me in my room for three days.”

  Trumbull raked a hand through his hair. “When he came to let me out, he told me he never wanted to see me again. That I was to go away to university and then spend any free time at Trumbull Hall, taking up all duties as the Marquess of Trumbull. We have corresponded a few times over the years, dealing with business matters, but I’ve never spoken to him in person until I accompanied you to tea the other day.”

  Amelia felt a small bit of pity for him but was still confused. “That still doesn’t explain why you married me with your . . . inclinations.”

  He laughed bitterly. “Durham gave me an ultimatum. To wed by my thirtieth birthday this July—else he’d change his will and have all unentailed properties go to my cousin. He would also free up a good chunk of money that I wouldn’t have seen until I became the duke. Some will go to pay off my gambling debts. The rest of those funds, along with your dowry, will let us live comfortably until Durham dies.”

  Her husband paused. “For now, though, I must live quietly and not draw attention to myself as I have in the past. It’s another of Durham’s conditions. So to society, I will present a respectable image, with an adoring wife whom I dote upon. In private, though, we may each follow our own heart and do as we wish. With whomever we wish.”

  Her head reeled from all this unknown information. Then the worst of it struck her harder than any physical blow. “What about children?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  “There will be none. That will be Durham’s punishment, going to his grave, realizing his bloodline will die out.”

  Despair filled her. “Won’t he question you about it?”

  “I doubt we’ll ever speak again.”

  She pushed aside her hurt and told him, “You may not, but I certainly can tell him you have no plans to touch me and see us have children.”

  Trumbull’s fingers flew to her upper arms, holding her fast. She knew it would leave bruises.

  “You’ll do no such thing.”

  “You can’t stop me,” she boldly proclaimed. “In fact, I can tell all of society what you are.”

  His grip tightened, frightening her. “You won’t. If the truth came out, you’d be humiliated. Embarrassed. The ton would wag their tongues about the naïve, stupid Ward girl who married the sodomite. You’d no longer receive invitations to any events. Your friends would abandon you. You wouldn’t have a husband to warm your bed and you’d lead a very lonely life, Amelia.”

  She knew it to be true. “What about you?”

  He shrugged. “I’d be fine. I would go to my gaming hells. Bordellos. My friends know who I am and I’d continue to see them in the privacy of their homes. I already have my funds from Durham and would merely wait for him to die.”

  Finally releasing her, he stepped away. “If you keep silent, Amelia, we can have the kind of marriage most everyone in the ton does. You’ll go your way. I’ll go mine. I’ll escort you to events, if you wish, though as a married woman you may now have others escort you. As long as you’re discreet, I encourage you to take as many lovers as you choose.”

  “As long as there’s no child,” she said bitterly.

  “Yes. Tell your lovers to use a French letter.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Just tell them. It prevents a child coming. They’ll know what to do.”

  She felt tears forming in her eyes. “So that’s it, then? We’ll return to London and act as if nothing is wrong.”

  When everything is.

  “Exactly. You’ll smile at me and pretend in public to be happy. In private, you may actually be happy with the lovers you choose. You’re a marchioness, Amelia, destined to be a duchess. You have a powerful name and several homes. You can do what you wish with your life. You’ll keep those gorgeous curves of yours since you won’t experience childbirth.”

  All she could see was the bleak future ahead of her. No true husband. No children. A life of emptiness.

  “Be a good girl and come back downstairs. Birdville is quite amusing, you know. We’ll be here a week before we go back to the city. Several of my friends arrive later today to join us for some fun. Perhaps you might find someone interesting among them and lose your virginity before we even return to London.”

  “You disgust me,” Amelia said. “I have no interest in the kind of life you describe. I’ll tell Durham and society just how despicable you are and how you trapped me into marriage. I don’t care about the consequences and your secrets. I can’t live a life of lies.”

  He strode across the short distance between them, catching her wrist and holding it so firmly that she thought he’d break bones. His other hand caught her chin, forcing their gazes to meet.

  “You will do no such thing. You’re my wife now. My property. I can do with you as I see fit.”

  Amelia spat in his face. Trumbull shoved her hard and she stumbled back, falling on to the bed.

  The look he gave her chilled her to her very soul. “Let’s see just how lonely your life might be if you don’t accept the freedom I offer.”

  With that, Trumbull left the room. She heard the lock thrown and raced to the door. Voices came from outside and she pressed her ear against the door, trying to hear what he said and to whom.

  “Lady Trumbull is very ill,” he declared.

  “I must go to her.”

  She recognized Mary’s voice.

  “The marchioness will be cared for by others. Report to the housekeeper. She will give you duties to perform until further notice.”

  Amelia could only imagine the look on Trumbull’s face. Poor Mary would be quaking in her shoes.

  The conversation ended and silence blanketed her. She went and sat in a chair by the window, which looked out on the front drive and lawn of Trumbull Hall.

  Her defiance had led her to this prison.

  Amelia wondered how long Trumbull would keep her here.

  The first day of her imprisonment seemed like a week. Amelia had first checked the door leading from her dressing room to his, hoping to find it unlocked so she could make her way to his bedchamber and out its door to freedom. Trumbull had been a step ahead of her and she found it locked. She’d kicked at it viciously but been unable to get it to give. She returned to her chamber and paced the room anxiously, hoping Trumbull would come to his senses and let her out. She spent much of the afternoon by the window, watching as a good dozen friends of his arrived for what would be a house party instead of her honeymoon. She recognized all of them as they spilled from their carriages, having seen them at balls and while out with Trumbull before their marriage. She speculated on how many of the men’s taste ran as Trumbull’s did and then shocked herself by thinking that some of the women might be the same way, only finding pleasure with their own gender.

  By the end of the day, she believed all of his guests had arrived. She roamed the room as an animal in a cage might, restless and anxious.

  And hungry. She’d only nibbled at a few bites of dinner last night in anticipation of her wedding night and had nothing but a sip of tea this morning. Her stomach twisted with shooting pains. Finally, she lay on the bed, tired from being on her feet most of the day. She had to leave her gown on because it had a few dozen buttons that lined the back. Not being able to reach them, she found she must remain in it.

  She awoke during the night several times and then finally arose as the sun did. Today, the hunger had subsided somewhat but it was her thirst that did her in. By noon of the second day, she only took small sips of water from the bowl where she’d washed her hands. She rationed herself, not knowing when Trumbull would return or if he’d send anyone to her. Glumly, she watched out the window as the group gaily made their way down the lane. Earlier, she’d seen servants loading a wagon with food and drink and decided Trumb
ull was holding a picnic for his guests.

  Every fiber of her being wanted her to call out for help, hoping either servants or guests would rescue her, but she remained quiet. She understood that any servant who came to her aid would be dismissed. Finding employment was too difficult. None of them would give up a job in the household of a marquess, especially if no references were forthcoming. She couldn’t look for help from any of Trumbull’s friends either. They would know his proclivities. For all she knew, he’d told them exactly what had occurred between them and that he was punishing her.

  Thus, she remained silent as the grave.

  The house party guests returned several hours later, their laughter floating up to her window. Most of the women entered the house but a few stayed as servants appeared with numerous loaded rifles. Amelia watched dully as the men shot at released birds for sport, the servants reloading the rifles. Trumbull never missed. Of the group, he certainly was the best shot.

  By the third day, Amelia thought she might go mad. From hunger and thirst. From boredom. From berating herself for having rushed into a marriage with a man she barely knew.

  All because she had wanted another man who didn’t want her.

  How foolish she’d been.

  She remained abed most of the day, her energy waning as her stomach cramped painfully. She’d only risen to open the windows and let some fresh air inside. The stench from her chamber pot filled the room. She’d dragged it into her dressing room and closed the door but the strong smell remained.

  Voices had risen from outside but she didn’t have the strength to see who was there. Instead, she lay in the bed, drifting in and out of sleep. She thought of her brothers and how much she wanted to see them. She’d give anything to go back in time and start the Season over. She would attend the various events and truly enjoy them, not worrying that Derek de Wolfe wasn’t interested in her. She would have taken her time and gotten to know several gentlemen well, hoping one would have been kind to her. She would have married a considerate man, something she now understood the value of after what her own husband was putting her through. She would have had children. Amelia dreamed of little girls with bows on their dresses and small boys with curious grins upon their faces. She would have loved them and spent time with them and have been fulfilled.