Bedazzled

by Bertrice Small

  “Passion should be a private matter between a man and his wife, madame,” he said reprovingly. “I could hardly avoid the formality when the Reverend Master Barton was encouraging me to it so publicly, and in such a loud voice. We would have disappointed the servants.”

  “If I asked for a respite from your company tonight so I might recover from my journey, would we disappoint the servants?” she asked him boldly.

  “You would disappoint me,” he told her. “Besides, you had several days in your brothers’ company at Queen’s Malvern to regain your strength, madame.”

  “I am not ready yet for a man in my bed,” India said frankly.

  “Why?”

  She stumbled, but he caught her up before she might fall. “I don’t know really. I just know I am not.”

  “Obviously, your experience with men is slight,” he said quietly, “but I am ready to have a wife in my bed, madame, and you are that wife. You are merely shy, which speaks well of your character. I am no monster.” And I cannot wait to have you in my arms again, you false bitch, he thought to himself. You will yield yourself to me whether you will or no. I have spent months dreaming of this night, and you will not deny me, India. You will never deny me again!

  It had all gone as he had expected so far. She had not recognized the earl of Oxton as the dey of El Sinut. Why should she? The earl of Oxton had short, dark hair, a rather sinister scar marking his face, and was clean-shaven, which gave his high cheekbones and jaw a totally different look. He spoke English. The dey of El Sinut had had a close-cropped dark black beard that fringed his jaw and encircled itself sensuously about his mouth and chin. His skin was bronzed from the hot sun. He spoke French to her in a soft voice, the voice of a lover in the language of love. But when he made love to her tonight, it would not be as the dey of El Sinut had made love to her, all sweetness and passion. It would be as the earl of Oxton would make love to his wife.

  He was yet angry with her. How could she have left him after declaring her love for him? When she was ripening with their child? Adrian had given him the answer when he had said India’s loyalty to her family was greater than any other loyalty. If he had not been forced to flee El Sinut himself, he might have never found her again. And where was their child? He would, of course, have to reveal himself to her eventually if he was to regain custody of his child, but for the moment, he intended taking his revenge upon her. He could not believe her so insensitive that she would have left the child in danger of any kind. There was time. And did he have a son or a daughter?

  They ate dinner in the little family hall. There were but the two of them. There were raw oysters brought to the earl which he swallowed with relish, his eyes making deliberate contact with hers at one point, and she blushed to her dismay. There was a small roast of beef; a duck stuffed with fruit and rice in a sauce of wine and plums; a lovely broiled trout set upon a bed of braised lettuce, surrounded by carved lemons, an extravagance; a bowl of tiny new peas, and another of little carrots; fresh bread, sweet butter, and half a wheel of hard, sharp cheese.

  He watched her nibbling unenthusiastically at a slice of beef, a spoonful of carrots, some bread. “You are not hungry?” he asked.

  “It is all very good, and well prepared,” India quickly said, sipping upon her second goblet of rich red wine. “My appetite has been poor of late, I fear, my lord. Food upon the road is often not of the best quality, even at the finest inns.”

  “When you have finished, then,” he told her, “you may go to your chamber and prepare yourself for me, madame.”

  She practically leapt from her place, and, curtseying to him, fled the hall.

  He smiled wolfishly watching her go. India was not a woman to admit to fear, but she was afraid, and he knew it.

  She could feel his eyes, those cold blue eyes, boring into her back as she went. God’s blood! What kind of a man was he to insist on bedding her immediately? True, they were man and wife, but they had met but a few hours ago. They knew virtually nothing about each other. Then, in a flash, she understood. If the marriage were consummated, she could not demand an annulment. After all, had she not told him quite bluntly that marriage to him had not been her choice? He, of course, would want to take no chances with losing her dowry, or a rich wife who controlled her own wealth but could undoubtedly be cozened into parting with some, or all of it. Men! They were so obvious. He was no different from the rest, but then, she had not expected that he would be.

  She was no virgin to be terrified of a man’s love lance. As for her husband, he would probably assert his rights in a brusque and perfunctory manner, then return to his own bedchamber. She wasn’t the first woman to be in such a position, nor would she be the last. It would have been nice if they might have gotten to know each other a bit before coupling, but so be it.

  “You looked so lovely in that candlelit church, m’lady,” Meggie said, taking the Stars of Kashmir from her mistress and replacing them in their case. “I’ve laid out a lovely nightdress for you.” She bustled about, taking India’s garments, shaking and brushing them, and putting them neatly away. “The earl seems a pleasant gentleman.”

  “Aye,” she said.

  “ ’Tis a terrible scar he wears on his face, poor man,” Meggie noted. “I wonder how he got it. He don’t seem the type of gentleman to get into a brawl. Mayhap it were an accident.”

  India took the soft flannel cloth that had been laid out, and sponged herself off with the warm, scented water Meggie had put in a silver ewer. Then she scrubbed her teeth with the cloth, rinsing her mouth with minted water. She slipped behind the painted screen in the corner of her dressing room, and, sitting on her commode, relieved herself, washing herself afterwards. Finally she pulled off her chemise, and Meggie slipped the rose-colored nightdress lavishly edged in lace over her head.

  “Find your own bed now, Meggie,” India said quietly, and, taking up her silver hairbrush, she sat on the edge of her bed, brushing her long, dark curls, as, with a curtsey, Meggie hurried out the bedchamber door. India smiled after her. Meggie was obviously finding married life with Diarmid a pleasant thing. She looked about the room again, admiring the serenity and order of it. The fireplace burned brightly, and but for the two candles on the nightstand there was no other light. Meggie had drawn the draperies closed. The room was comfortably warm, and she could smell the heady scent of the roses from the bowl on the table.

  A small door in the paneled wall opened, and the earl stepped through into the room. To her complete surprise, he was naked. “Remove your nightdress,” he said quietly as the door behind him closed. “Unless you are suffering your woman’s cycle, are greatly advanced with child, or I tell you I will not be visiting your bed, you will always sleep naked, India, as do I. Do you understand me?” Then he stood watching as she removed her garment, nodding in answer to his question. “Good,” he said. His eyes swept over her. “You have a beautiful body, madame.”

  She was nonplussed. She certainly hadn’t expected him to behave in such a manner. It was very disconcerting.

  Reaching out, he put his hands about her waist and turned her, drawing her back against his hard body. A single hand clamped over her right breast. His lips touched her shoulder, scattering a row of kisses across the warm flesh, even as his fingers crushed and marked the skin of her full breast.

  She couldn’t breathe. Her chest felt tight. His actions were not what she had anticipated at all. She could sense the lust beneath his careful deeds. He frankly frightened her. He was obviously dangerous. He was her husband, and she was at his mercy. India struggled against her own fright. She knew she must not show any fear with this man, but when he pushed a finger between her lips and into her mouth, she could not prevent a gasp of surprise.

  “Lick it!” The two words were snapped into her ear sharply.

  After a moment’s hesitation, her tongue reached out and touched the finger. Slowly she encircled the digit several times. It was long and thick, and very suggestive of another member of
his body.

  “Suck it!” His hand opened, then slipped beneath her breast, cupping it. His thumb began to rub against her nipple.

  India could feel her heart hammering in her ears. She drew on the finger within her mouth over and over again while his hand fondled her breast hungrily, and her nipples puckered like frosted flower buds.

  The hand moved from her breast finally, sliding down her torso, caressing her Venus mound. Pushing through the folds of her nether lips, he found her pleasure place and began to stroke it with his fingertip. “What a sweet wanton you are,” he whispered in her ear. “You are already wet with your desire. You want to be fucked, don’t you, madame?” He pulled his finger from her mouth so she might speak.

  “You are my husband,” India replied in a shaking voice.

  He laughed, and it was a dark sound. “Little whore,” he murmured. “You would want to be fucked even if I weren’t your husband, wouldn’t you?” The finger playing with her pleasure place was obtaining the proper results, and she squirmed her bottom against his groin, desperate to reach that honied place where the tensions in her loins would dissolve in a burst of hot sweetness.

  In that moment she hated him, for she was fully aware that he knew what he was withholding from her. The knowledge gave her a moment of strength, and she pulled away from him, whirling about to face those cold eyes. “How dare you speak to me in such a manner, my lord? I am your wife, and not some servant girl to be insulted!”

  He moved quickly, one arm wrapping itself about her, the other hand tangling into her dark hair. His mouth found hers in a long, hard, deep kiss that left her once again breathless. Shoving her down onto the bed, he flung himself atop her, his hands spreading her open. Without a word, he entered her body with strong thrusts of his hips, pushing deeply even as she attempted to unhorse him, spitting her rage and swearing fiercely at him.

  But it was too late. He had prepared her well, and while India wanted desperately to deny him, her body welcomed him eagerly. She was hot and wet. Her tight sheath encased him. They groaned in unison as their linked bodies pleasured each other. She clawed at his broad back. He caught her hands and pinioned them over her head, struggling to propel himself deeper.

  “Put your legs about me, you eager little bitch,” he growled into her ear, and without hesitation, she did, using her wrapped limbs to lever herself forward and sink her teeth into his shoulder. He yelped, but continued pistoning her.

  She couldn’t . . . she couldn’t fight him any longer. She fell back gasping like a fish out of water, drawing great gulps of air into her lungs even as she felt herself shoved up to the heights of a frenzy of heated passion that burst over her and then receded, leaving her weakened, and helpless. “Ohh, God!” she sobbed as release flooded her very being. “Ohh, I hate you for this!” And she shuddered with the final spasms of her defeat.

  He lay atop her for some minutes, his heart hammering, his breathing rough. It had been so long. So long since he had known the pleasure of her body, and the sweet fulfillment that only she could give him. He wanted to wrap his arms about her. Tell her the truth. But he couldn’t because he couldn’t trust her. She was a hot-blooded and deceitful little bitch. No better than his stepmother had been. She would yield her body to gain her own way. He rolled off India, and arose from the bed. “Good night, madame,” he said, and returned through the door in the wall from which he had come.

  India lay astounded. She was battered, and probably bruised. Every bit of her ached, and yet she felt quite relaxed and shamefully satisfied. He had called her a wanton, a little whore. He had almost made her feel like one. The single kiss he had given her had been a fiercely passionate one. Her fingers touched her mouth. His lips had triggered a reminiscence that she could not quite pull up from her memories. She began to cry softly, not even understanding why she was weeping.

  He had behaved like a complete bastard, and she had not expected it at all. A quick assertion of his marital rights and nothing more was what she had assumed. That this cold, stern man was capable of such heated passion astonished her. India crawled beneath the down coverlet, curling herself into a tight knot. She realized that she was trembling, and the tears were hot on her face. What had she done in agreeing to this marriage, and what other surprises had her husband in store for her? She wanted to be loved. Loved by a man who no longer existed, and not by Deverall Leigh, the earl of Oxton. Were it not for my baby, she thought, I should just as soon be dead.

  He heard her weeping, and every instinct made him want to go to her, but he would not. She wept, the deceitful bitch, only because he had been rough with her, but God help him, she had inflamed his senses. The touch of her skin, the familiar scent of her. They had all conspired to drive him to madness. She would probably hate him in the morning, but he didn’t care. Why should he care about how she felt? She had deceived him and then deserted him. He didn’t know if he could ever forgive her, but he didn’t care. He was going to fill her belly again with his seed, and this time he would not let her steal this child away.

  Chapter 21

  India awoke the following morning still feeling as if she had been in a battle. She could see a thin ribbon of light through the crack between the two draperies. She listened carefully but heard nothing, and so she quickly arose and slipped her nightdress back on before Meggie could find her without it. It had been the oddest wedding night that anyone could imagine, she decided, climbing back into her warm bed. He had, she concluded, been neither cruel or brutal, just simply very determined in his approach to her. Still, she could see she was going to have to teach him better bedchamber manners. While he had been careful to see she obtained her share of passion, she realized upon reflection, he had forced it from her, rather than coaxing it. He obviously knew little about making love to a woman, and that was going to have to change, India concluded.

  She did not see her husband until evening when they met at the highboard for their meal. She had spent her day helping Meggie and Diarmid to unpack her belongings. She told him so, and then inquired about his day and activities.

  “I oversee my estates,” he told her. “I am not a man for court now that I have the responsibilities of Oxton. We support ourselves here through our flocks and our orchards. Perhaps you noticed the fruit ripening as you arrived yesterday. With your dower horses, I hope to breed racing animals, madame. Are the horses Irish stock?”

  “Yes,” she answered, “they are. The Irish lands were given to my mother on her eighteenth birthday by my father, the marquis of Westleigh. Her estate manager is the former owner of the land. He chose a fine stallion, Nightsong, and the mares personally. Now the estate will be turned over to my younger sister, Fortune, for her dowry.”

  “I am grateful to you for the stallion and the breeding stock,” the earl said to his wife. “Now, madame, I have something to discuss with you. The servants in this house are all old, and have been in service here since my late father’s youth. It is past time that they were retired to their cottages on the estate, and most wish to go. It will be your responsibility to staff the household. Can you do it?”

  “With the help of the present staff, yes, I can,” India said, flattered that he was vesting this decision in her. “Diarmid More-Leslie will become the majordomo of the household. I will ask Dover to teach him his duties before he retires. Will that meet with your approval, my lord? It is your home first, and I would not offend you in any manner.”

  The barest ghost of a smile touched his mouth for just a brief moment. “If you will but consult me before any final decisions are made, madame, that will suit me well,” he said.

  They ate the rest of the meal in silence. Then India arose to excuse herself. “It is my custom to take a bath before I retire each night,” she said softly. “Will you be joining me later, my lord?”

  “Aye,” he said, and nothing more.

  She curtsied, and went to her apartments. He was such an odd man, she thought. Meggie had her bath ready. Undressed, she climbed into t
he warm, scented tub and washed herself, being careful to pin her curls atop her head. When she was dry, and in her nightdress, Meggie and Diarmid together emptied the tub and stored it away before bidding her a pleasant night. When they had gone, India arose, removed her gown, and laid it carefully upon a chair before climbing back into her bed and snuggling beneath the down coverlet.

  The curtains were drawn once again. The firelight lit the room. Meggie had forgotten to light the tapers on either side of the bed, but India didn’t mind. She dozed half seated against her pillow, awakening when she heard the sharp click of the door in the paneling. As the previous night, the earl entered her bedchamber naked, but this time she had a small opportunity to observe him. He was well made, she could see, with no deformities. There was a dark mat of hair upon his broad chest that extended into a narrow treasure trail leading to his groin. His masculine parts were also extremely well made, she noted, large and healthy.

  Lifting the coverlet, he climbed into bed beside her. “I am pleased to see that you followed my instructions,” he told her.

  “Asking me to be naked in my bed for your attentions is hardly an onerous order, my lord husband,” India answered him.

  “Lay back,” he said, throwing the bedcoverings aside. “I wish to examine you in more detail, madame. I did not have the opportunity last night to do so. I would see what Glenkirk has sent me.”

  “Like one of my mares,” she mocked him sharply.

  “Precisely, madame,” he told her, and took up her hand.

  “Our situation is intimate, sir,” she replied. “Will you not call me by my given name, and permit me to call you by your name? In public, formality is required, I understand, but surely not here in my bed.” He was kissing each of her fingertips, having examined her hand in great detail.

  He put one of her fingers in his mouth, and began to suck on it slowly, drawing on the finger deeply, his tongue working its way about the slim digit. His other hand slid between her thighs, and began to play with her sex. When she was wet with her arousal, he took his finger and pushed it into her mouth, and, without being asked, she began to suck upon it. “That is how you taste,” he said softly. He sucked harder on her finger.