Bloody hell, if he’d serenaded Lady Pensworth, how would he ever live that down?
Mrs. Trevor stepped forward and began to play a violin, jerking his attention back to his wedding. The woman really was quite good. How surprising.
A sound on the stairs caught his attention, and he looked over to see a cloud of blue silk descending.
Delia. His bride. He had a bride, for God’s sake.
She came fully into view, and his heart stopped. She was so lovely. Her cheeks shone rosy, and her lips curved in a hesitant smile that made his blood run hot. She wore some frothy thing that spilled down the steps as she walked. The bodice accentuated her small but pert breasts, which he’d ravaged less than a day ago.
And wanted to ravage now. Wouldn’t that shock the parish priest?
She carried a bouquet in her lace-gloved hands. The bride’s bouquet, with hydrangeas and roses and God knew what else wrapped in more lace and ribbons, brought home the fact that he was really getting married. To Delia.
That hit him with all the weight of an anvil. He would be responsible for her happiness. Somehow he would have to reconcile her needs with his strange way of life—the mornings and days spent sleeping short hours so he could do the work of an heir.
They were marrying. They would be linked forever, would have children together.
Children? God, he’d forgotten all about that. They hadn’t even discussed it. What if she didn’t want children? He must have an heir. Surely she would understand that.
But how could he have children when he couldn’t bear the night? Would he wake them with his screaming? Would they know him only as the man who roamed the city to keep his fear at bay while they slept?
This was happening too fast. He was marrying. Had he lost his bloody mind?
Then Delia reached the bottom of the stairs, and her eyes locked with his—so blue that they seared a path right to his soul—and he saw in them the same uncertainty he felt.
Oddly, that calmed him. They would get through this together, somehow.
She walked down the aisle, an ethereal creature in lace and silk, and he concentrated on their wedding night to come. The rest would fall into place. It had to. Because he couldn’t back out now.
When she joined him before the priest, a surge of something that felt oddly like possessiveness seized him. How mad was that? This was an unplanned consequence of his nightmares, nothing more. Yet the sound of her voice, repeating the vows after he had done the same, made his blood roar through his veins with an avaricious satisfaction he couldn’t deny.
Still, he couldn’t ignore the twitching of her lips when the priest said, “Wilt thou obey him, and serve him,” et cetera, et cetera.
“I will,” she said, deliberately not meeting Warren’s eyes.
So when Warren was asked to take the ring, to speak the words, “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow,” he made sure to catch her gaze.
And the blush that suffused her face told him that they might do very well together. As long as he could keep his weakness secret from her.
Then came the part of the ceremony where a kiss was expected. And he damned well gave her a kiss to remember. Because if they were to start a life together, then she might as well know one truth.
He would start this marriage as he meant to go on. He would thoroughly enjoy the part of marriage that allowed him to bed his wife.
And God help them both if that wasn’t enough.
Nineteen
Delia was so exhausted, she scarcely made it through the wedding breakfast. In addition to having had little sleep last night, the tension of today’s events had sapped her energy. By the time she and Warren climbed into his carriage shortly before nightfall and headed for London, she could barely keep her eyes open.
She tried, though. She really did.
“What did you think of the service?” he asked as he settled back against the squabs across from her.
“It was lovely. Didn’t you think so?”
“It was a wedding. What else is there to say?” When she glanced out the window, trying to hide how that answer disappointed her, he added, “But you made a beautiful bride in all that lace and silk.”
The words, huskily spoken, set her more at ease. “You didn’t look too bad yourself, my lord.”
In a coat of royal-blue superfine with black silk lapels and black breeches, he’d looked every inch the marquess he was. It was a little unsettling to realize that the magnificent fellow with the gold buttons and sapphire stickpin in his silk cravat belonged to her. She hardly knew what to do with such extravagance.
He acknowledged the compliment with a nod. “You must tell my valet as much. He was in a dither of worry about making sure I looked the part.”
Of course. “I still haven’t met this illustrious fellow. I begin to think he’s a ghost.” His valet had gone on ahead to the town house to unpack his lordship’s belongings and probably have a maid unpack hers as well.
“You’ll meet him tomorrow. I gave him tonight off. I don’t think I’ll need him for our wedding night.”
The hungry look in his eyes sent a delicious excitement down her spine. “Does that mean you’ll play lady’s maid for me?”
“I wouldn’t miss that for the world,” he said in that rough rasp that never failed to heighten her pulse. “I can’t wait to see what lies beneath that frothy gown.”
“But you’ve already seen what lies beneath my gowns.”
“Not enough of it, trust me. You have no idea how often I’ve imagined you in the altogether.”
Altogether? Did he mean naked? Somehow it hadn’t occurred to her that he might wish that. What if he didn’t like what he saw? Her breasts were awfully small and her derriere far too large. “Even my maid never saw me . . . without anything on. Are you sure that’s what you want?”
He eyed her as if she were mad. “Of course. You know perfectly well I desire you in every way. What I’ve seen so far has only fired my determination to see more.”
Now that she thought about it, his Roman costume hadn’t shown her near enough of his lean form, either. Perhaps seeing each other naked could work both ways.
“You’ll let me see you in the altogether, too, won’t you?” she asked.
His gaze smoldered. “To be sure. I can’t wait to feel your hands all over my naked body.”
That sounded perfectly marvelous, though she wasn’t sure she should admit it. “Oh.” She was sure her cheeks were quite rosy now.
“But if we keep talking like this, I’m going to take you right here and now, and to hell with waiting.”
“Why wait?” she blurted out.
Raw need flared in his face, and he shifted on the seat as if suddenly quite uncomfortable. “Because, dearling, this time I mean to do it right.”
“Did we do it wrong before?”
He gave a rueful laugh. “No. But the wedding night at least should be in a bed.”
“How very conventional of you,” she teased.
“Watch it, brat, or I will strip you naked right here in the carriage—and then we’ll have a devil of a time getting you properly dressed again. Is that the condition you want to be in when you meet my servants?”
“I suppose not,” she said, sobering at the idea of facing his staff. “How much do they know about me, anyway?”
“They know you’re a respectable lady and my wife,” he said firmly, “which is all they need to know.”
Hmm. She wasn’t so sure about that. Servants could be a tricky lot.
“I should have asked before now,” he added, “but do you have a lady’s maid of your own back in Cheshire, whom you wish to have me bring to London?”
“Brilliana and I used to share a maid, but we’ve had to play lady’s maid to each other ever since . . .” She swallowed. “We had to let most of our staff go. Only Owen and our cook remained.”
“Ah. Well, then, instead of going on to Lindenwood C
astle, perhaps we should stay in London so you can hire a lady’s maid and any other additional servants you think you might require. I have to be in town for Parliament soon, anyway.”
“And I’ll need to pack up all my things at Aunt Agatha’s and have them brought over to your town house.”
“Already done. Your aunt’s servants and mine took care of that while she and I were at the lawyers.”
“You were that sure of me?” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“Your aunt was that sure of me. She had me over a barrel, and she knew it.”
She couldn’t help laughing. “Sorry. I ought to feel guilty about that, but I can’t say I do just now.”
“I should hope not. I’m considered quite a catch, you know.”
“Are you?” she said lightly. “I suppose that means you have gobs of money and more than one property and loads of servants.” All of which she would be expected to help him manage. The prospect sounded rather daunting. “Oh, dear, how many servants do you have, anyway?”
He launched into a description of the staff at his myriad properties, which proved to be dizzyingly varied. After a while, she could scarcely keep up with it all, especially since her lack of sleep had begun to take its toll. Before long, she found herself yawning.
“Please forgive me.” She covered her mouth. “It’s all very fascinating, but I am just rather . . .”
“Tired?” In an instant, regret shadowed his features. “I can’t imagine why, since your oaf of a husband woke you in the middle of the night by yowling outside your window.”
“True,” she said tartly, then yawned again.
“Come here,” he ordered, holding out his hand.
When she took it, he tugged her over next to him, then settled her comfortably up against him. “Sleep,” he murmured. “I daresay you need it after the past few days.”
When he put his arm around her, she snuggled up against him with a sigh. In moments, the steady rocking of the carriage and the warmth of his body lulled her into a dreamless slumber.
The next thing she knew, she was being carried out of the coach and up some steps. By Warren, judging from the scent of his cologne. She burrowed deeper into his arms, and he chuckled.
“Are we at your town house already?” she whispered.
“It’s been over an hour since we left Stoke Towers, Sleeping Beauty. But yes, we’re in town. And I think we’ll wait until morning for you to meet the staff.”
“Mmm, all right.” She dozed again . . . until the sensation of being laid upon a bed and having her shoes removed woke her once more.
She gazed up into an enormous velvet canopy with gold tassels and blinked. As Warren turned away, she sat up. “Wait, where are you going?”
He paused to look at her. “You’re clearly too tired for a wedding night, dearling.”
“I’ve had a good nap. I’m ready for anything.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
Rather than argue with him, she threw her legs over the side and glanced about the room. Aside from being the largest bedchamber she’d ever seen in a London town house, it was curiously feminine, with rose motifs on everything and curtains of rose brocade. Not to mention huge gilded mirrors and a marquetry dressing table fit for a queen.
“Is this our bedchamber?”
“Your bedchamber.” He gestured to a door. “Mine is through there.”
She stared at him. “But . . . but why wouldn’t we share a bed?”
“We shall, I promise.” He grinned at her. “Indeed, I greatly anticipate it. When we sleep, however, we’ll retire to our own rooms.”
“My parents always shared a bedchamber.”
His grin faded. “Mine did not.” He added hastily, “I realize the décor is probably too old-fashioned for you, since this was my mother’s room before she embraced the Methodist faith and began sleeping in a smaller, more sober one, and I’m fine with your altering it to suit your own tastes. Indeed, you may wish to make other changes to—”
“Warren,” she said, to halt his flow of words. “Just because your parents slept separately doesn’t mean we have to.”
He stiffened. “No, but I prefer to do so.” When he saw the hurt look on her face, he softened his tone. “I promise, you won’t actually want to sleep in the same bed with me. I don’t . . . rest well most nights, which is why I wander.”
“You mean because of the nightmares.”
His jaw tightened. “Partly. And I talk in my sleep. Among other things.”
“So does Brilliana, and I’ve shared a bed with her in inns without a problem. Trust me, it won’t bother me in the—”
“It will bother me,” he said in a voice that brooked no refusal. “So I shall sleep alone, as I always do.”
Another lordly pronouncement she was supposed to simply accept without question. Fine. She didn’t wish to get into an argument with him on their wedding night.
Still, that didn’t mean she would forget about it. Having witnessed one of his disturbing nightmares and hearing that he’d had others, she wondered how much his wandering had to do with them. One way or the other, she intended to get to the bottom of that—and figure out how she could help him sleep more easily.
But not tonight.
“Whatever you wish.” It was easy to speak the lie. To choose to wait until he trusted her more with his heart.
His heart? Lord, she was in trouble if she thought she could ever capture it.
“Whatever I wish, eh?” His mood lightened as he approached. “And what if I wish to see you naked?” With eyes gleaming, he drew her up off the bed and into his arms. “Will you permit me to play lady’s maid now? Or are you too tired, still?”
“I assure you I’m quite thoroughly awake.” She looped her arms about his neck and gave him a quick kiss, which he turned into a longer, hotter one.
Then he began to undress her . . . slowly, achingly, punctuating every motion with kisses and caresses. Her heart hammered harder with every piece of clothing he whisked away. There was something very unnerving about having him bare her completely. Especially when he was fully dressed.
So she halted him after he’d removed all but her shift and her drawers. “I want to see you, too,” she whispered. “Let me play valet for you.”
He sucked in a harsh breath. “Your wish is my command, wife.”
She had a cursory knowledge of how all the pieces of clothing went together, but after removing his coat and waistcoat, she had some trouble undoing his cravat, which seemed to be tied in an unnecessarily complicated knot.
“Want some help?” he asked in a throaty murmur.
She gave a tight nod. When he laughed and obliged her by removing the pesky strip of cloth, she muttered, “Now I see why you have a valet. No one could ever do so extravagant a knot on their own.”
He gestured to her elaborate coiffure. “I could say the same about your hair. Take it down, dearling. I’m sure I’d snarl it in the attempt.”
As she let it fall and turned to place her hairpins on the dressing table, he came up behind her to fill his hands with her curls. “Ah, how lovely it is.” He caught a lock of it up to his lips and kissed it. “I knew it would be as luscious as the rest of you.”
She caught her breath at the compliment. “It’s very hard to . . . manage.”
“Rather like its owner. And I enjoy all that glorious unmanageability.” Sweeping the mass aside so he could kiss her neck, he murmured, “Time to remove the rest of your clothes, dearling.”
She faced him. “You first.”
He arched an eyebrow. “For a woman reckless enough to gamble in the stews, you certainly are shy.”
“Not shy,” she lied, reluctant to admit her real fear. That once he saw her naked, he’d regret marrying her. She tugged at his shirt collar. “I’m just eager to see what I bartered my freedom to gain.”
“So that’s it, is it?” His gaze boring into her, he stripped off his shirt.
At her first glimpse of
his fully bared chest, she could hardly breathe. Spreading her hands over it, she whispered, “For a man who spends all his time in the stews, you are quite. . . muscular.”
His throat moved convulsively. “I do ride, you know. And fence. And—” That ended in a groan when she ran her thumbs over his nipples.
“You were saying?” she teased. She rather liked having him at her mercy for a change. Sliding her fingers down his taut belly, she unfastened his breeches and reveled in the way the bulge beneath them thickened at her touch.
But before she could go any further, he brushed her hands aside so he could undo the rest and shuck breeches, drawers, and stockings in one fell swoop.
Leaving him naked at last.
She drank her fill. My oh my. So this was what a man looked like beneath his clothes. Much hairier than she would have expected, not to mention more . . . sculpted. And his . . . cock . . . was sticking right out, the impudent thing.
When it bobbed under her gaze, she grew a bit embarrassed to be caught staring at it and dropped her gaze lower. That’s when she caught sight of a scar that ran about six inches down one of his well-wrought calves to his foot.
With her heart in her throat, she bent to trace the deep groove. “What’s this?”
He tensed. “Nothing.”
“Clearly not nothing.” She stared at it. “It looks awful. It must have hurt terribly.”
His breath grew heavy as he pulled her up from the floor. “I stepped on an oil lamp while in the cellar as a boy, and the glass shattered, slicing my leg.”
“Good Lord! How deeply?”
“Deep enough.”
“What were you doing in a cellar?”
He shrugged. “You know how boys are—always getting into trouble and going places they shouldn’t.”
Something about the sudden darkness in his eyes told her there was more to it than that, but before she could ask for details, he reached up to unbutton her shift.
“Enough stalling, wife,” he said hoarsely. “Now it’s my turn to see what I bartered my freedom for.”
Twenty
Warren had only a moment to congratulate himself on avoiding the subject of his scar before Delia slipped off her shift and drawers, and his every sense went on high alert.
The Danger of Desire Page 20