Wed By Proxy (Brides of Karadok Book 1)

by Alice Coldbreath

  “Gods,” she heard him mutter roughly into her hair. “I’ve never felt anything so…” his bit his words off precipitately. “Mathilde?”

  She didn’t answer, one of his big hands was rubbing up and down her lower spine, but it didn’t feel soothing, more like he was trying to urge her to something. She was just getting a nasty suspicion that he expected her to do more than simply try and keep breathing, when he suddenly jolted, and she felt the strangest sensation of his cock pulsing inside her.

  “Umm…” She lifted her head from his shoulder.

  “Hold still!” he groaned. “I can’t—” His head fell back, and she watched an agonized expression pass over his face. “Fuck!”

  Mathilde sat very still as he gripped his fingers into her buttocks and shuddered against her. His whole body seemed deep in the throes of some kind of turn. She held her breath, then suddenly, she felt something very strange, and Guy gave a long, rasping groan, and dropped his head onto her shoulder. Mathilde blinked. So earlier, when he had said he was close, he had meant to this crisis point. When he spilled his seed inside of her.

  Oh. She sat quietly, contemplating the act she had just partaken in. She was no longer a thrice married virgin, she thought, her spirits fluttering and reviving. She was in deed and truth, now a married woman! Her face flushed with triumph, even though she was feeling at this moment rather sore and in some discomfort accommodating him. Presently, though, she was sure he would recover himself and withdraw from her. In his own time.

  In the end, she wasn’t sure how long they remained like this, but suddenly, she found herself swung up, and carried over to the bed. She made a noise of objection, mostly because both of her arms had gone to sleep. He laid her down carefully, and started trying to disentangle her from the remains of the scarlet dress, without much success. After struggling a moment or two, she heard him curse under his breath, and then he just grabbed it in both fists and ripped it along one of the seams. Mathilde’s eyes blinked open, but she didn’t make a noise until he lifted one of her arms and then she cried out.

  “What is it?” he asked with alarm.

  “It’s gone to sleep,” she told him in a small voice. “The sleeves were stuck halfway down…”

  He examined her closer, then swore. “Your skin is all marked here, you should have told me the dress was cutting into you.”

  “I didn’t want you to stop,” she explained simply.

  He hesitated. “Next time…” he said warningly.

  “Next time, I‘ll tell you,” she promised obediently and he set about freeing her other arm.

  “You need to get cleaned up,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll go down and get you some hot water.”

  “There’s no need. Prudie left two clean pitchers of water for us to wash.”

  He paused. “You wouldn’t prefer warm water?” he asked solicitously.

  She shook her head. “No, it’s fine,” she said rolling to one side and clambering off the bed. Her legs felt a little wobbly, but she walked to the basin and poured some clean water into it. Then found the soap leaves and started scrubbing her face and neck.

  He cleared his throat. “You’ll need to wash between your legs,” he told her, then after an awkward pause. “Where can I find you a clean shift?"

  Mathilde passed the cloth between her legs and then swilled the cloth in the bowl. There were only a few drops of blood by her reckoning. “If you’re sleeping naked, then so will I,” she said, frowning. Married people slept naked, after all.

  He was quiet a minute. “You want me to stay, then?”

  Mathilde turned around with a sharp inward breath. “Of course!” she said, staring at him. He looked, she thought, a little taken aback. What was wrong with him? She frowned. Why was he hovering there, looking all awkward, after he’d just been inside her body. Did he still think he’d hurt her unduly? She wished she had not yelled out so loud now.

  She sent him an encouraging smile. “All is well.”

  She carried the basin over to the window, unfastened the latch, and emptied it out. Returning it to the dresser, she put a fresh cloth next to it and poured in the rest of the clean water. She could feel his troubled gaze on her the whole time.

  “Come Guy, come and wash.” She patted the cloth. “Here’s clean cloths for you.”

  Looking back over her shoulder, she saw him avert his eyes guiltily. He looked flushed and … oh. Aroused. Again. Already. That did give her momentary pause. She’d had no idea that men were so quick to recover. It wasn’t all the way up like it had been before, but it certainly wasn’t lying harmlessly between his legs, that’s for sure.

  “If I stay,” he said, flushing. “I’ll want you again.”

  “Well, and what of it?” she answered pragmatically. He looked stunned by her answer, so she tried again. “My maidenhead is now gone,” she pointed out.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’d not expect you to part your legs a second time for me this night, lass,” he said gruffly. “I only meant, to prepare you for the fact this will be poking through the bedsheets all night.

  Mathilde laughed. She couldn’t help it. He looked even more abashed than anything. “I don’t mind,” she said.

  “And you don’t want a shift?” he asked with a frown.

  “That would hardly be much of a barrier,” she answered lightly. Besides, she’d be falling out of all her new ones, she’d modified them so indecently.

  Leaving him to wash, she crossed the room to the bed and climbed on, a small smile playing about her lips, even though she ached in strange places. She had done it! She had seduced her husband, and now she just needed to keep doing it, until he was convinced he could not do without her at his side.

  XVIII

  Guy rode back the next morning as dawn was breaking. He felt strangely divided. The female he had left soundly sleeping was not his wife. He now knew that beyond all manner of doubt. Twice widowed women, on their third marriage were not virgins.

  It had been a wrench to leave her there, naked beneath the sheets, but he had steeled himself to do it because he needed to think. And there was no way in hells he could think straight lying next to her. He’d barely had a wink of sleep all night. His body had thrummed with awareness of her. His desire to enfold her in his arms was almost overwhelming. He’d promised himself that, as soon as her breathing evened out, he would give in to it and draw her body to his. If she was fast asleep, then his erection would not be an issue, as she would be oblivious to its rude presence.

  Then she had surprised him by scooting over and snuggling into his side. His involuntary stiffening had not seemed to deter her. She had elbowed him, thrown a leg over his, and cozied right up to him. As he had lain breathless and stunned, trying to reign in his rampaging emotions, she had drifted off to sleep as if she had not a care in the world!

  He thought now of her matter of fact manner as she had wiped her blood and his seed from between her legs, and how she’d laughed at his scruples. It seemed she was a lot more realistic than he about their new respective roles. For she was undoubtedly his mistress now. Acting in any other way was, frankly, foolish.

  He supposed he should be angry. But when he examined his feelings in the cold light of day, he found no anger present. How the fuck could he be angry when she had given him the most pleasurable experience of his life? His every impulse now was to cherish her. Even now, he was half-inclined to turn his horse back and return to her. Had he been too rough? The choice of position had been ill-suited for a virgin. He felt guilty for making her take him like that. How would she feel, waking alone after what they had done the previous night? Would she be scared? Sore? In need of comfort? He felt a pang and cursed himself for a fool. If anything, she had seen vastly pleased with herself after the act, he remembered and had to bite back a smile. What was wrong with him?

  She was undoubtedly a liar, though not a skillful one, as he had not believed her story from the outset. Not really. Her claims had made no sense. W
as that why he did not resent her duplicity? There was something else though, something he did not really care to acknowledge. Underneath the jubilation there was a current of … sadness. Even of faint disappointment. The smile faded from his face. He frowned, as he stabled his horse and walked back toward the house, shaking his head. Underneath it all, had he really hoped she was his marchioness? Fucking hells. He must be a bigger fool than even he had realized.

  Now he was just left with the question of who she really was. Strange to say, a full confession about who sent her and with what aim, was not his most pressing concern. After all, he already knew it must be his true wife at the bottom of it. That seemed glaringly obvious. Oddly enough, he found his top priority was to know her real name. He ached to know it. How could they have shared their bodies, when all the time he was calling her by another woman’s damn name? He ran up the steps to the entrance hall and passed a servant hovering there.

  “My lord!”

  Reluctantly he halted in his tracks and turned back. “Yes? What is it?”

  “A rider came by last night, with a letter for you.”

  “Oh?” A deep sense of unease washed over him. Was this a mere matter of coincidence? Or was his true marchioness about to show her hand? His throat tightened. “Where is it?”

  “In your study, my lord. My lord!” the servant called after him, as Guy had made straight for that room. “The rider said his journey had been much delayed due to the snow! The letter is two weeks late in reaching you!”

  Guy reached his study moments later and found the missive lying in the middle of his desk. With an unpleasant jolt, he recognized the crest as that of Sir Cecil Allworthy. Why the hells should Julia’s husband be writing to him, he wondered, breaking it open and scanning the contents. He soon found out. It was apparently time for Julia’s annual pilgrimage back to the land of her forbears. Which was odd, thought Guy, as she normally did not venture north until the spring, when the weather improved. Suppressing a sigh, he supposed he would have to meet with them and attend some damned reunion feast. What a bloody nuisance!

  It was only as he reached the last paragraph, that he realized the dubious honor of hosting fell to him this year. Fuck. Surely it was not his turn? Counting back the last three visits, he supposed grudgingly that it was. Strethneal had hosted them last year, and Kirkby the year before. It was damned irritating, but there it was.

  Cecil Allworthy was a quiet sort of fellow, he did not care for sport or entertainment and could occupy himself very well in the library. As for Julia, she enjoyed an audience, and would generate a steady stream of visits and visitors. However, that was her affair. She could hold court by herself in one of Acton March’s sitting rooms and receive all and sundry there. Guy was damned if he’d be drawn in to the rigmarole. He would not act as escort either, he vowed. If Cecil was not up to squiring her about the neighborhood, then Firmin could do it.

  He usually found Julia’s attitude a little galling, in truth. These days, he found he could only tolerate her company in short bursts. Julia, whom he had vastly admired at eighteen, he found not so pleasing in his early thirties. She was accustomed to speaking to him gently, with a melancholy, tender aspect, as though she did not wish to hurt or give him false hope. Clearly, she still thought him the enamored youth who was keen to indulge her every whim, but that boy was long gone.

  She was also prone to extreme nostalgia about the land of her youth, and the memory of Kerslake castle, a place she complained about heartily about when she actually lived there. He cast the letter down with disgust, and then his servant’s words sprang to mind. What was that he’d said? Something about the letter having been delayed? Uneasily, he picked up the letter and scanned it looking for a date of arrival. The seventh, he noted with displeasure. That was in four days’ time! With a muttered profanity, he scrunched the letter up in his hand and went in search of Firmin.

  It was a good couple of hours before Guy simmered down again. Firmin showed a regrettable tendency to keep popping up with questions about their visitors and how to accommodate them, until in the end, Guy was forced to bark at him that he did not need to be troubled with the arrangements, which were a matter of indifference to him. Firmin had seemed shocked, but Guy had stared him down, until his steward retreated with his lists. Guy entertained precious little, and it was well known that he hated to socialize, so he did not know what Firmin could be about bothering him with such things!

  In the end though, his black mood lifted. Even the imminent arrival of the Allworthys could not dent his sense of well-being overlong. He was supposed to be checking over an inventory, but instead his thoughts turned pleasurably back to his Mathilde. No, that was wrong. She was not his Mathilde. She was the delightful little jade who had tricked him into breaking his wedding vows. Except she hadn’t really. Any flicker of resentment he might feel over her lies was replaced almost instantly with the fierce pleasure of knowing that she would only ever be his and his alone. She was a little liar, but for all he knew, his real marchioness could have some sort of hold over her, compelling her to this charade. She would have little choice in being treated like a pawn.

  Her uncertainty, her innocent overtures the night before had all been real, and he would swear an oath to it. He could not regret taking her for his own, though it was the only knowingly dishonorable thing he’d ever done; his marriage vow, the only vow he’d ever broken. How could he regret it now? He had no idea what the end game was of the plot she had found herself entangled in. But when he thought about her being sent to him, the way she had been, vulnerable and unprotected, his blood boiled.

  On her way to him, she had been assaulted, and she had been thrown in jail. In his heart he swore vengeance against his greedy bitch of a wife who would use her like that. She must be some minor scion or connection of the Doverdale family, he ruminated. She could not be a servant, as she was just too unworldly. Unless her whole personality was a complete ruse, but he did not believe that anymore. He couldn’t.

  He was restless at supper. Would she have expected him to ride over today? Twice, Temur was forced to repeat himself as Guy was not keeping up with the conversation at the table. Firmin confined himself to one comment about the impending Allworthy visit before Guy’s sour expression curtailed that topic altogether. Then Waldon started talking about his visit that day to Wickhamford town. Guy was unheeding at the beginning of the tale, but soon realized all eyes were now on him.

  “What was that?” he said lowering his cup.

  “I said he asked after you, and ‘your young friends,’ most particularly.”

  “Who did?”

  “That young master Thurston, the merchant’s son.”

  “Did he, be damned,” muttered Guy, whose mood took a turn for the worst. He slammed down his goblet.

  Waldon scratched his ear, looking abashed, Firmin merely disapproving.

  “Wasn’t he the one as stopped the carter from taking the Lady Mathilde’s horse?” piped up Temur, not at all sensitive to any shift in mood.

  Guy glared at him. “It was,” he said brusquely.

  “You should have put him in his place, Waldon,” said Firmin, pressing his lips together thinly. “He’ll be dragging Guy’s reputation through the mud.”

  “It’s a rare tale,” said Temur. “If you only knew the half of it! Why, that—”

  “That’s enough,” Guy interrupted him with a frown. Then he levelled a look at Firmin. “I’m not concerned about my reputation.” And he wasn’t. The fact he had a mistress was bound to get out. He wasn’t going to fret overlong about it. Skulking around in fear of discovery would turn something sweet into something sour, and he wasn’t about to ruin everything. Not when it was the first taste of sweetness he’d had in years. He wasn’t that fucking stupid.

  In truth, Temur was right. He owed Thurston a debt. He just didn’t like the fact the young merchant was so interested in his affairs. He remembered the younger man’s bold gaze and evident amusement when he realized h
is captive was a female. Perhaps he should pay Thurston a visit and make plain to him how things stood. Mathilde was not anyone else’s business, save his own. Looking up from his plate, he saw all eyes were still trained on him, and cleared his throat.

  “Waldon, you’ll need to get over to the lodge at some point tomorrow to help young master Robin execute some plans for a hen keep,” he said. “They nearly had a fox break in last night.”

  “Oh aye,” said Waldon easily enough, but Guy could see Firmin was startled at him raising the lodge so casually at table. He’d best get used to it, he thought grimly. He wasn’t going to lie about where his interests lay.

  “How’s that old nag of hers?” asked Temur.

  “Destrian,” Guy corrected him unthinkingly. Temur guffawed and Guy glared at him. “It’s his name,” he enunciated belligerently.

  “You should hear what they’ve called the chickens,” said Waldon with a grin.

  XIV

  Mathilde glanced out of the window again, as Prudie cleared away the table. Night had fallen and Guy clearly wasn’t coming. Again. She looked down ruefully at the low-cut blue gown she had donned for supper. For modesty’s sake, she had thrown a scarf around her shoulders, to spare Robin and Prudie’s blushes. She had slashed the neckline to the point of outrage.

  The only decent dress she owned now was the original dark green wool gown she had been given. She had taken to wearing that in the day, then for supper she would don one of her scandalous numbers and sit in the vain hope Guy would appear. It had been some three days since she had last seen him. Waldon had been over and helped Robin secure the hens and restock the log pile. Another delivery been received by Prudie, of spices this time, and sugar. Mathilde had received a parcel of soft leather shoes and embroidered slippers with long pointed toes from a shoemaker in Wickhamford. Their fit had been surprisingly accurate.