by Rose Lerner
“Are you all right?” she asked him, stiff-lipped. Her fingers gripped one another tightly.
He leaned in and brushed a kiss on her cheek. “I’ve never seen you in colors before. It’s a bit overwhelming.”
She didn’t laugh, but she made a little huffing sound and her shoulders relaxed. Jamie glared at him across the top of her head. Ash hoped he wouldn’t do anything to embarrass Miss Reeve.
The ceremony did nothing to decrease his sense of unreality. Anglican weddings were so strange and staid; there was no sense of joy in them at all. As yes, here came the bit about marriage signifying the mystical union between Christ and his Church, a metaphor Ash had always found bizarre and a little perverse. But the English thought the Song of Solomon was about Christ and his Church too—or politely pretended to, anyway. Ash and Rafe had laughed silently about that in churches across England.
“…And therefore it is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God…”
Miss Reeve breathed deeply and evenly, gazing straight ahead—too deep and even and straight. Ash could guess the effort it cost her not to flinch at those words. Childhood fears and beliefs never really left you. But she was carrying it off beautifully.
She didn’t flinch when the vicar asked for impediments, either. Jamie gnawed on his lip and glanced over his shoulder at the empty pews. He didn’t have anything, clearly—only wished he did, or that a woman would suddenly rush in at the back of the church crying, Stop! This man is already married—to me!
But when asked who gave this woman to be married, he said in a voice whose tension could easily be interpreted as shyness, “I do,” and let her go.
Then there was a blur of repeating after the vicar, and trying not to snicker at the idea that any of the Hebrew patriarchs had marriages one should try to emulate.
Ash kept his eyes on Miss Reeve through the interminable remainder of the ceremony, shutting out the clergyman’s voice so as not to look sarcastic or remember all the places he and Rafe had once looked sarcastically at one another.
He wished Rafe were here, only—he had meant to stand back there with the teary relatives while Rafe married Miss Reeve.
Rafe, he thought, could have taken these vows in earnest. Ash shouldn’t be happy that he was here instead. He shouldn’t be happy at all.
But he had to be happy, because everyone was watching them. So he kept his eyes on Miss Reeve—Mrs. Cahill now, he remembered, and his smile felt as if it would split his face. She was beaming too—she glowed, quite as a bride should, and darted little glances at him. Ash didn’t know how he was going to make it through two wedding breakfasts before getting her into bed.
Lydia’s jaw ached from smiling. The Lively St. Lemeston Assembly Rooms were full to bursting with food and people, and she and Mr. Cahill had spoken to most of them.
Lydia had never known anyone who liked crowds as much as she did before. Aunt Packham was weeping quietly in the corner, where Jamie kept her company, not exactly glowering but not smiling either. Her erstwhile best friend Caro sat by the wall, taking notes on everything for the Intelligencer and giggling behind her hand with her new sister-in-law.
Caro had always wanted Lydia to giggle in a corner with her at parties, when Lydia was working. Caro had wanted to be friends, she realized now, and had thought that was what friends did. Lydia was glad Caro had found people who understood what she wanted and wanted the same thing.
Lydia, on the other hand, had barely spoken to Mr. Cahill directly in an hour, and yet she could feel the thread between them humming. She knew very well that he was thinking mostly of their wedding night, just as she was, and yet he smiled and shook hands and remembered details about guests’ children, half of which she hadn’t told him. She quickly realized that he must be talking to people all the daylight hours he wasn’t with her.
Miss Tice, Mary Luff’s new employer, walked in. Lydia had been campaigning to make a friend of her, in hopes that a desire to please her might win good treatment for Mary, where showing favor to the girl herself might lead to resentment and secret cruelty from the milliner and other girls alike. She thought it was working; Miss Tice’s congratulations sounded heartfelt enough. “We’re all that happy for you, Mrs. Cahill,” she said. “All of us. We did so hope you’d find a gentleman worthy of you.”
“Oh, I don’t pretend to be worthy,” Mr. Cahill said, and Lydia thanked her, full of sloshy warm embarrassment and the pleasure of being called Mrs. Cahill.
Miss Tice smiled the particular sentimental smile of a guest at a wedding breakfast and gave Lydia a small box. “I hope you like these.”
Inside nestled delicate sprays of winterberries, so carefully made they looked almost real. “They’re beautiful.” Oh, it was nice to wear colors again. It was a kind rule, that brides left off mourning. Wearing black had been a good thing those first weeks, announcing her grief to the world so that she wasn’t obliged to. But it had begun to make her sad too, every glove and hat and scrap of fabric arrayed against her slipping for even a moment and forgetting what she had lost.
“They’ll look splendid on my white winter bonnet. You don’t think a low crown is hopelessly outdated, do you?” After a pleasant discussion of fashions in hats, in London and the country, Lydia turned to Mr. Cahill so he could compliment the gift too.
“Your most cunning work I’ve seen yet, ma’am,” he said. “Though I must admit, my favorite is still the love-lies-bleeding.”
Miss Tice smiled. “I saved a few berries for the auction, never you fear.”
So Mr. Cahill had been visiting Miss Tice too. Not only Miss Tice—as the breakfast wore on, woman after woman whom Lydia had brought him to meet now told him in detail about her auction contribution, referencing conversations Lydia hadn’t witnessed: I’ve decided on a yellow border instead of the purple and I thought I could offer to sew the buyer’s initials on it after and I realized a half-crown was precisely the right size to use as a pattern. With every exchange, every new proof of his skill, his dedication and his generosity, Lydia’s arousal grew until she was desperate with it. She and Mr. Cahill had been creating static electricity between them all through this party, and now she was fully charged. When the Gilchrists arrived, she could not even manage to care about Mrs. Gilchrist’s quilt, though she had resolved to speak to her on the subject at the first opportunity.
“I’m so glad we saw you!” she told the agent and his wife. “We’re about to remove to Wheatcroft.” She exclaimed over the fussy embroidered cuffs Mrs. Gilchrist had made her, and then gathered up Jamie and Aunt Packham and whisked them all out the door, leaving the Pink-and-Whites to enjoy themselves and eat the rest of the food.
The drive was interminable, the conversation for once dominated by Jamie and Aunt Packham. Lydia’s whole mind was occupied with her thigh pressed against Mr. Cahill’s, his arm brushing hers when the carriage swayed. She didn’t dare turn her head to look at him.
“Are you all right, Lydia?” Jamie asked at length. He looked half desperately worried and half I-told-you-so, as if he imagined she felt the first stirrings of regret.
Lydia had no idea what to say.
Aunt Packham laughed. “It’s natural for a woman to feel anxious on her wedding day, Jamie. She’ll be blooming tomorrow, never fear.”
Jamie flushed bright red. “Lydia?” He shot her a defiant, loyal glance.
Her heart skipped a beat. She’d done that for him when he was small. He’d been a quiet boy. Nursemaids, tutors, doctors, other boys, Lord Wheatcroft and Aunt Packham had all rushed to speak for him, to tell Lydia how he felt, how his day had been, what he wanted, whether his head ached or where that bruise had come from. And she had always said, Jamie? so he’d know that if he wanted
to contradict, to tell her the truth, she would listen and she would care.
He never had. Eventually she’d stopped, afraid she was making him feel conspicuous. But he must have marked and appreciated it after all, because now he was trying to do the same thing for her. She wished she had something to say besides, “I think Aunt Packham is right.”
Mr. Cahill’s quiver of suppressed laughter might have been imperceptible to someone not pressed against his side.
Jamie sighed and looked out the window.
As the carriage rolled up the Wheatcroft drive, Jamie said, “Mr. Cahill, may I speak with you a moment in the Little Parlor?”
“Of course,” Ash said, with a small show of surprised confusion. His brain whirred with trying to guess what Jamie wanted, but that wouldn’t help him. Only a relaxed state of readiness could do that. So he uncluttered his mind and imagined that Jamie was his new brother-in-law who could only want to speak to him about something quite harmless.
Mrs. Cahill’s gaze went between the two of them. Ash gave her a reassuring smile.
“Perhaps I should come with you,” she said.
Jamie shook his head. “I have a gift for you that I don’t want you to see yet.”
Mrs. Cahill—no. He would call her that aloud, and enjoy it immensely, but he couldn’t possibly think of her that way in the privacy of his own mind. Lydia looked surprised and annoyed for the space of a moment before an expression of fond gratitude spread over her face. “You got me a gift?”
Jamie grinned. “I know you hate surprises, but I think you’ll like this one.”
Ash didn’t understand how it was possible to dislike surprises, especially surprise gifts. But he also didn’t understand why you would give someone a surprise gift when you knew she disliked it.
“If it’s from you, I know I will.” Lydia ruffled his hair. “Be nice to my husband.”
Jamie pulled him into the parlor. The gift was immediately obvious: the huge, bulging sofa Lydia had reupholstered with stripes was missing. Jamie looked embarrassed. “She loves that sofa,” he muttered.
Ash thought she loved that sofa where it was, as a memory of this room filled with Reeves, and that finding Jamie hadn’t cared to keep it might diminish it in her eyes. He also thought it was unlikely to fit neatly into the Dower House’s parlor. But he knew she wouldn’t say so to Jamie, so he smiled. “She does. It was a bighearted notion.”
Jamie shrugged, not looking at him. “I don’t know what one man is supposed to do with such a large house. My rooms at Oxford would have fit into Wheatcroft’s pantry.”
Ash had remarked a certain lack of enthusiasm on Jamie’s part towards any mention of his own future marriage or family. He wasn’t sure if Jamie was molly, or if it was merely an unattached youth’s dislike of being managed by relatives. He covered both possibilities by saying, “I imagine you could have splendid house parties for your friends. If you expected things to become rowdy, Mrs. Packham would always be welcome to stay at the Dower House.”
Jamie winced. It occurred to Ash, too late, that maybe his friends at Oxford would also have fit into Wheatcroft’s pantry. It had been a thoughtless remark after all.
Well, who could blame Ash for not being in top form? He was married and had yet to bed his extremely eager wife. It was enough to make anyone tactless. “Or you could begin collecting things,” he suggested, trying to salvage his mistake. “I’m sure that antique suits of armor could soon fill up some of the extra rooms.”
Jamie’s lips twitched. “All suits of armor are antique by definition,” he pointed out with reluctant amusement.
It was precisely what Lydia would have said. Ash was filled with sudden affection. It was a useful emotion, but oddly unwelcome. Why? You like everybody, he reminded himself. It doesn’t mean you’re trying to make a little brother of him. It doesn’t mean anything. But he couldn’t be sure. Maybe he really was so empty, so rudderless, that he would attach himself to the first people he washed up against.
“Are you all right?” Jamie asked.
“I just wish my brother might have been here.” Ash’s throat was dry as dust. “My au—” He choked on the lie. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. “My aunt is too ill for him to leave her.”
Jamie’s face, for the first time, filled with sympathy. Then he remembered himself and looked sullen again.
“What did you wish to speak to me about?” Ash asked.
Jamie bit his lip. “Just that if you hurt my sister, I’ll kill you,” he said, rather apologetically. “I know I don’t seem very menacing, but I’d wager I’m better with a pistol than you are, so take it seriously.”
Ash thought it unlikely that Jamie had it in him to kill in cold blood. “I would never willingly hurt your sister,” he said gently. “Her happiness is precious to me.”
“Good. See that it stays that way.”
Ash couldn’t help smiling. “Do you think we might make another truce? This rift between the two of you is making your sister wretched.”
Jamie lifted his eyebrows, reminding Ash again vividly of his sister. “She doesn’t look wretched.”
“I didn’t say she was all wretched.” He waited until Jamie met his eyes. “She doesn’t wear her heart on her sleeve. But she feels very deeply.”
“I know that,” Jamie snapped. “I’ve known her a lot longer than you have, and if you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”
Ash nodded and held out his hand to shake on the deal. Jamie hesitated—but manners won out. Not shaking hands was a graver insult than he was willing to deliver.
“I know you’ve been making inquiries about me,” Ash said. “And I know you haven’t found anything, because there’s nothing to find.”
Jamie looked uncertain and stubborn. “I don’t deny it—at least, I don’t deny that my inquiries have been unsuccessful so far. My friend in Cornwall has turned up nothing against you. Your bank and the vicar of your home parish both vouch for you.”
Ash kept his relief off his face.
“I can’t shake the feeling that there is something odd about this whole affair, but I know it’s no excuse for rudeness.”
“It’s to your credit that you want to protect your sister,” Ash said. “I don’t mind a little rudeness now and again. Politeness makes things go smoothly, but it’s hardly a mark of good character.”
“Exactly!” Jamie said with the relief of someone used to having to argue a point. He flushed. “We should be getting back to the breakfast.” He held the door for Ash.
Lydia had promised herself she would stay exactly as long at Wheatcroft as she’d stayed in Lively St. Lemeston, so no one could feel slighted. She’d stayed in Lively St. Lemeston an hour and a half. Why? Why had she done it? If she’d stayed three-quarters of an hour, she could be taking Mr. Cahill’s clothes off right now.
Don’t think about taking his clothes off.
But she couldn’t stop. She hadn’t yet seen his naked body. She would take his cravat off first, she decided, and undo the first button of his shirt, and kiss the hollow of his throat. There was something unbearably thrilling in the image—still in coat and waistcoat, with that one patch of bare golden skin, dark hair curling above his white shirt. Something that was always there, and that no one ever saw.
But perhaps we should wait until after dark, she thought. What will the servants say?
She’d always found the gossip and speculation about new brides extremely embarrassing. She had no doubt she would find it embarrassing when it was about herself. But even if they said Mr. Cahill was a fortune hunter who’d ensnared and enslaved her with lust, she…
Mr. Cahill tugged at the knot of his cravat. He saw her frown and made an inquiring noise.
“I forgot what I was thinking of.” She glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes more.
The Wheatcroft carriage took them to the
Dower House, knowing laughter at their haste still ringing in Lydia’s ears. The carriage would stay with them until their own was finished later in the week. Jamie had said when he made the offer, “You know I prefer to ride,” which hadn’t much reassured Lydia, but the last thing she wanted was another argument with Jamie. She would visit the coachmaker and ask him to hurry, that was all.
Oh, but a bride wasn’t supposed to go out visiting in the first weeks of her marriage. She would have to send a note.
Mr. Cahill slouched down among the cushions with a sigh. Lydia wasn’t sure whether the movement naturally called attention to the fall of his pantaloons, or whether her own desire made it seem that way. “I deserve a medal for this morning’s work,” he said. “I’ve burgled sturdy townhouses with less effort than it took to go through those breakfasts without an obvious cockstand.”
She didn’t know how to answer that; she was so unused to speaking plainly of such things. She supposed she should be more shocked by the mention of burgling than by the word “cockstand”.
He leaned over and lifted her leg into his lap by her ankle, pushing her skirts up to show her stocking. “Maybe I could be awarded the Order of the Garter.”
“We still have our own servants to greet,” she said with an effort. So little—his hand on her calf—and already all her skin tingled and her breasts ached. She sent her attention to them, cupped and separated by her corset. The ache grew. Her nipples hardened, already humming with pleasure. How could they feel so good without even being touched?
The carriage jerked to a halt. He pushed her foot off his thigh with a resigned sigh and stood. “Come along with you.” He heaved her up into his arms as she descended from the carriage and carried her up the walk, setting her on her feet with a flourish before the assembled staff in the entrance hall.
Wrenn and Gower had outdone themselves. The Dower House was cozy and warm, with Christmas greenery wound around the banisters, wreaths hung on the walls and holly on the mantels. Everything in the house shone, gleamed, glowed, and otherwise reflected the light in a manner indicative of its extreme cleanliness and good condition.