by Sandra Heath
Marigold’s thankfulness was such that she almost gave a gasp of relief.
Alauda was annoyed that the moment had come to nothing, so decided to try to make Marigold look foolish. “Why, dear Marigold, what a shock your news is, I vow I did not expect you to emerge so neatly from the jaws of disaster.”
By now Marigold’s initial shock had subsided, and once again the champagne urged her into battle. “Disaster? What on earth do you mean, Alauda?”
“Why the debacle of Merlin’s will, of course.”
“Ah, yes, the faked document,” Marigold replied amiably.
Alauda’s lips twitched. “Hardly that, my dear.”
“Oh. but Falk admitted it, Alauda.”
“Well, with your reputation at stake, no doubt you are forced to say such things.”
“If it ever comes to that, Alauda, I will be sure to consult with you, for if anyone knows what it is to have one’s reputation in jeopardy, you do.”
Marigold’s smile could not have been more sweet. “May I say how very lovely you look tonight? What material is your gown? I vow it is so transparent it must be Madras muslin.”
Alauda flushed. “Transparent?”
“Well, one can see a great deal of your, er, form.”
“I think you exaggerate,” Alauda replied icily. “Besides, it isn’t Madras muslin, but Swiss. I wouldn’t stoop to something as cheap as Madras.”
“Really? Well, whatever the price, vibrant yellow is definitely your color, for it is so very conspicuous, is it not?” Marigold’s trill of laughter was a cruel imitation of Alauda’s. “Why, I believe that if all the illuminations here were to be extinguished, we would still be able to see by the glow of your gown!”
Alauda looked murderous. “I’d hardly call it vibrant, but then fashion was never of particular interest to you, was it?”
“To be truthful, I fail to see why it should be of such intense concern to any woman of intelligence. Why on earth should one slavishly follow every new mode? I’m reliably informed that to a gentleman, a pretty ankle is a pretty ankle, whether it peeps from beneath ten-year-old gray flannel or the latest plowman’s gauze. Is that not what you said, my lord?” She turned suddenly to Rowan as she said this last.
He gave her a mixed look. “Yes, my lady, that is indeed what I said,” he replied, even though they both knew he hadn’t.
Looking daggers at Marigold, Alauda lapsed into a heavy silence. She’d come off worse in the skirmish, and she knew it.
Lady Crane knew it too, and laughed a little embarrassedly. “Why, la, Lord Avenbuwy, I declare thith eveningth fireworkth are the motht thplendid ever, don’t you agwee?”
“They are excellent indeed,” Rowan murmured.
Emboldened, Marigold decided it was time to fix upon Sir Reginald, who had been steadfastly avoiding both her gaze and Rowan’s. “Good evening again, Sir Reginald,” she said. “I hope you and Lord Toby were able to find supper somewhere the other night? You left the Spread Eagle so hurriedly that I thought I had imagined you there in the first place.”
Sir Reginald gave her a sickly smile. “I, er, yes, Lady Avenbury. We ate at the George and Dragon.”
“How is your poor nose?”
Invisible daggers shot from his eyes, for it was quite clear how his nose was. “It will do, madam, it will do.” He glanced out of the box, and gave a glad cry. “Why, Fernborough is waiting by our box, so I believe our supper must be ready!”
Without a word, Alauda turned and left. Lady Crane gave another embarrassed laugh. “Why, la,” she declared a little foolishly, and made much of extending her hand for her husband to present his arm. Sir Reginald duly obliged, and they too left the box.
Marigold exhaled. “What a very disagreeable few minutes,” she said.
“Much enlivened by your notion of humor,” Rowan replied, resuming his seat.
“At least I have one. Alauda’s was noteworthy for its absence.”
He sat back, and ran a fingertip slowly around the rim of his glass. “You can hardly expect her to be pleased with the situation.”
“Am I to sympathize with the odious creature? She is a snake, and just behaved very badly indeed. So did Lady Crane.”
He looked shrewdly at her. “Are you seeking an argument, my lady?”
“Do you enjoy being the bone of contention?” she countered.
“Is that how you see me?”
“It appears to be the role in which you cast yourself.”
“It isn’t, believe me.”
“But, sir, if you intend to keep a wife and a mistress who abhor each other, you are bound to be the bone.”
“You are still wrong. Now, I don’t intend to pursue the matter any further.” He poured her a little more champagne.
Marigold hid her anger from him, for if ever any man wanted to have cake and eat it, that man was Rowan, Lord Avenbury! He intended to continue seeing Alauda, and at the same time he intended to bed his wife. She smiled sweetly, and pushed the plate of Madeira cake toward him. “Do have some, sir.”
Her smile didn’t falter as he took a slice, nor did it waver as she recalled Alauda’s scathing words in the grotto. Merlin told me she was cold and unimaginative, the equivalent of bedding a codfish. A codfish? Well, if that was what Lord Avenbury thought his new bride would be, he was going to be very surprised. It was too long since she had been loved, and she was attracted to him in a way she wished she was not. Tonight he was going to be hers, and she meant to enjoy him to the full. He was not the only one who could have the cake and eat it. Still smiling, she took a slice as well.
Chapter Thirteen
It was gone midnight as Marigold stood alone on the wrought-iron balcony of her bedroom. She and Rowan had been back from Vauxhall Gardens for half an hour, and now she was waiting for him with a shameful degree of excitement. The last glass of champagne had sealed her foolishness.
This was her wedding night, and she was about to spend the intimate hours of darkness with a husband she hardly knew, but who had already come to mean far too much to her. He was a tantalizing enigma, a man with magic in his eyes and fate in his touch. He was almost otherworldly, yet only too worldly as well, and she knew she was a fool to be falling in love with him, but on this occasion folly was proving impossible to resist.
She gazed down at the moonlit garden, where silver roses bloomed and diamonds danced in the fountains. Silver and diamonds? She smiled at such fanciful metaphors, but then she was seeing through a champagne glass—brightly! An owl called in the cherry tree at the bottom of the garden, and for the first time she noticed that mistletoe grew on one of the branches. Mistletoe, the sacred plant of the druids. Suddenly the night seemed cooler, and she drew back into the room.
Her small apartment consisted of a main bedroom, a dressing room containing wardrobes and a washstand, and a mirror-walled anteroom that opened onto the landing. The furniture was upholstered in bluebell velvet, and the walls were hung with pale yellow-and-white silk.
The sumptuous four-poster bed was draped with a pagoda canopy of dainty white muslin, and the gray marble fireplace was particularly beautiful. An ormulu clock ticked on the mantelpiece, where ornaments with intricate crystal droplets caught the candlelight. It was all very elegant, and she liked it very much, especially as it looked out over the delightful gardens, unlike Rowan’s apartment at the front of the house.
A lighted candelabrum stood upon the dressing table, its flames swaying idly in the barely perceptible draft from the garden. She saw her reflection in the cheval glass in the corner, and paused to consider what she saw. Beneath the voluminous white silk, her figure was firm and reasonably curvaceous, although hardly memorable, and at least her complexion didn’t suffer the bane of freckles. She supposed her eyes might be considered handsome, they were certainly large, very green, and shaded by blessedly dark lashes. Her eyebrows were dark too, not the pale reddish hue that all but disappeared when viewed from more than a few feet away.
Her onl
y true asset were the red-gold curls that fell loosely about the shoulders of her nightgown, but good eyes and copper gold hair alone would never make her Alauda’s equal. She looked at the mirror. “You are the one who will be with him tonight, not Alauda,” she reminded herself.
Suddenly the clock chimed the quarter hour. It was the time Rowan had said he would come to her. She hastened to stand by the candle, for she knew how the flame would burnish her hair and outline her figure more becomingly through the thin white silk of her nightgown. Tonight she had no shame. She heard the anteroom door open and close, and then there was a discreet tap at the door of the bedroom itself. “Marigold?”
“Please come in.”
He entered the room, and went to place the lighted candle he carried on the mantelpiece. He wore Turkish slippers, a maroon paisley silk dressing gown that was tied loosely at the waist, and his dark hair was tousled. He turned, his glance sweeping over her. “Well, here we are, madam.”
“Here we are indeed, sir.”
“Marigold, it is now my turn to offer a way out. There is still time for you to change your mind about being Lady Avenbury. Are you sure you wish to continue?”
She was taken aback. “Why do you ask?”
“Tonight at Vauxhall you were the object of much staring and quizzing. Maybe it has made you pause to think twice.”
She was unsure of him. “Or maybe you are the one who has thought twice, sir.”
He smiled a little. “My feelings have not changed, Marigold, although I confess to finding this situation somewhat novel.”
“Novel?”
“It is very strange to find myself with a wife.”
“Come, sir, you have often found yourself with a wife.”
He smiled again. “Touché, but never my own.”
“Am I so very different?”
“It is the situation that is different.”
“For you maybe.”
His eyes flickered away. “Ah yes, I must not forget that this will be the second wedding night you have known.”
“The second wedding night, and the second husband, indeed only the second man, for until now Merlin was the only one. Whereas you, sir, have no doubt lost count of your conquests.”
“I wouldn’t exactly say lost count.”
“Then let us settle for the fact that you are very experienced indeed, whereas I have only Merlin with whom to compare you.”
“You think I mean to compare you with others?”
“With one other, perhaps.”
He drew a long breath. “You do me an injustice, Marigold.”
“Do I?” She wondered if he could have put his hand on his heart in that moment, and sworn that the word “codfish” had not passed his mind!
Humor glinted in his eyes. “Let us be clear here, my lady. My, er, activities have never been in a marriage bed, you are the one who has experience in that respect.”
“Then you, sir, will be the one who benefits, will you not?”
He raised an eyebrow. “That is a very forward thing to say, Lady Avenbury.”
“How do you know I’m not a very forward woman? Maybe I am completely abandoned.”
“Are you?”
“That is for you to discover.”
“Is it indeed. Very well, Marigold, come here and let me begin this investigation.” His voice was very soft as he held out a hand.
She went to him as if in a dream, linking her arms around his neck and then stretching up to kiss him. He put his hands to her waist as her lips moved seductively over his, but as the tip of her tongue teased his, he slid his arms fully around her.
The kiss brought her to life. Her pulse quickened, and her body began to ache for the consummation that enticed so exquisitely through his warmth. She pressed closer, and was conscious of his arousal. She moved against the firm, hard masculine contour, and exulted in the sensations she had craved so long. It was like awakening after a long, long slumber.
At last he drew his head back to look into her big green eyes. “Champagne certainly releases your inhibitions, Marigold,” he breathed, gently untying the ribbons of her nightgown and slipping it from her shoulders so that it fell to the floor at her feet.
“But I am a forward woman, sir,” she whispered. Not a codfish, never a codfish....
He gazed at her in the candlelight. “You are a very surprising woman, my lady,” he replied, then suddenly lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He laid her on the silken coverlet, and then took off his dressing gown. He wore nothing beneath it, and she thought his lean, muscular body was perfect. There were dark hairs on his chest, leading down to the forest at his groin, from where his maleness sprang readily. Oh, how readily.
Excitement flamed through her, and she reached up to him. He sank down into her arms, body to body, mouth to mouth. Kiss followed kiss, and their caresses grew more passionate and intimate. She wanted him to enter her fully, but he tantalized her, sliding his virility to the threshold, but no further. Then, just as she thought the excitement was unendurable, at last he pushed into her.
Magnificent sensations scintillated over her entire being, bewitching waves of pleasure that lit her soul like the fireworks she’d watched earlier. She clung to him, arching with the intensity of her release. His strokes were long and leisurely, extending her pleasure through his own climax, and then more.
Afterward her body was warm and trembling as he drew her close to him. She felt sated and drained at the same time, and it was wonderful. She had missed this pleasure, lain awake at night longing for it, and suddenly it was hers again. Tears sprang unexpectedly to her eyes.
He leaned up in concern. “What is it?” he said, gently pushing a damp curl of her hair back from her forehead.
She hardly dared look at him, for fear her foolish love would shine too bright. “I’ve been so lonely,” she whispered.
For a moment she thought she saw pain in his eyes, but then he pulled her into his arms again, and rested his cheek against her hair. She could no longer see his eyes, but thought his body shook, as if he were fighting back tears of his own. But she could not be sure.
Chapter Fourteen
The next morning she awoke to find herself alone in the bed. Rowan had only just left her, for the sheets were still warm where he had lain. She stretched luxuriously. How wonderful she felt, so relaxed and content. It was as if the years had peeled back, and she was sixteen again, and so in love with—and loved by—Merlin.
No, it was far, far better than that. She closed her eyes and remembered the night that had just passed. How many times had Rowan kissed her? How many times had he stroked and caressed her? Oh, too many to possibly count, but every moment had been exquisite. They still hardly knew each other, and yet had indulged in such passionate lovemaking that she blushed to think of some of the intimacies they had shared, intimacies she wished to share with him over and over again. And today they were to leave for Avenbury Park, where they would be alone together for as long as they wished....
The clock chimed eight, and her eyes opened again. Suddenly she no longer wanted to lie there, so she got up to put on her apricot muslin robe, then she went out onto the balcony. The scent of honeysuckle was as sweet and refreshing as the night before, and the fountains played in the sunlight. The mistletoe shone golden among the green cherry leaves, horses stirred in the mews lane at the foot of the garden, and an occasional voice carried as the grooms went about their business. She flung her tangled hair back, and took a huge breath, but then the birds fell curiously silent.
Expecting to see a cat, Marigold looked down into the garden again, but instead saw a stealthy human movement by the wicket gate that gave access from the stables to the garden. Alauda’s maid, Lucy, hurried to the cherry tree, then stretched up to push a piece of paper into a crevice in the trunk. The robin hopped along a branch, his head cocked as he watched the paper being carefully tucked out of sight. Lucy, a plain girl with straight brown hair and freckles, glanced nervously to
ward the house, but not up at the balcony, then gathered her fawn linen skirts to hurry back to the gate. After a moment the birds began to sing again.
Marigold was filled with dismay the moment she recognized the maid, for until that moment she had managed to put Alauda from her mind. Now reality swept back with a vengeance. Rowan may have spent last night with his wife, but his mistress was still there. Suddenly Rowan himself emerged into the garden directly below her. He carried his top hat and gloves, and was dressed in a pine green riding coat and cream breeches. As he ran a hand through his hair and walked quickly down between the rosebeds, his watching wife knew he would stop first at the cherry tree.
Tears stung her eyes as he did just that, reaching up unhesitatingly to take the note from its hiding place. He was just reading it when suddenly a groom came through the wicket gate and almost walked into him. Rowan shoved the note hastily into his pocket as the groom begged his pardon, then hurried on toward the house.
Rowan proceeded out of the garden to the stables, and a moment later Marigold heard him ride away along the mews lane. But the note, which he thought he had put securely in his pocket, had fallen onto the path, and lay there in the shade of the cherry tree.
Marigold had to know what it said. For modesty’s sake she donned her nightgown beneath her robe, then hastened from the room. She was careful that no one saw her slipping down through the house, then out past the kitchens, where the servants were about their breakfast. She hardly noticed the fragrance of the garden as she hastened down the path toward the speck of white by the cherry tree.
Swiftly she retrieved it, then pretended to examine some of the newly forming fruit on the cherry tree. She glanced back toward the house, but there was no one around, so she moved beneath the shady branches, from where the fountains would also obscure the view from the house, then she smoothed the paper out to read what was written there.