by Cecilia Gray
If it had been satisfying to consider the label in his mind, it was even more satisfying to voice it out loud. “My wife,” he repeated, his voice gravely and unrecognizable, even to him. Thank God for his plan, and for the book, else who knew what he would have done next.
He handed it to her and she accepted it, looking at him with hesitation.
“What am I to do?” she asked.
“Whatever you want,” he said. “The book is to guide you. But you are in charge. If you see something you like …”
She flipped the book open to an illustration of tangled limbs and hair. “And if I want this?”
His throat felt thick with desire, and his hands tingled at the prospect of them being similarly positioned—his hand on her bare thigh, her legs sliding against his. He cleared his throat. “Then I shall accommodate you.”
As if sensing her power over him, she walked to the bed and sat down. He forced himself not to follow, to let her lead. If she beckoned him, he would join. She set the tip of her finger in her mouth and licked, then turned the next page. He stifled a groan.
“Well, this is interesting,” she said, her eyes wide. Another lick, another turn. He shifted, uncomfortable. “Oh, now this I find very compelling.” She was unknowingly torturing him in small degrees as his fevered imagination ran through any number of ways to touch and taste her.
She stopped on a page, her breath hitching. He strained forward to see if he could glimpse the page she was on. She looked up at him, lost and breathless, and he went to her.
It was a simple illustration, the simplest one, in which the two parties were facing, gazing into each other’s eyes.
“Yes,” he agreed, taking the book from her fingers and drawing her to her feet. “I can accommodate that quite well.”
Chapter Nine
November 12, 1820
Woodbury, England
Lady Bridget Abernathy was convinced that she would never stop blushing. Not after the events of last night that, quite honestly, had progressed quite into morning and then once again mere moments ago when she’d woken to find him grinning wolfishly and hungrily at her before claiming her lips.
Every time she relived the events of last night in her mind, how his hair tickled the sides of her thighs, the rough brush of his tongue, she felt her skin flame. He’d fallen back asleep after taking her that last time. He had not bothered to return to his room but had stayed in her bed, on his side, curled into her.
She rested a hand on his cheek. The scruff of his beard scratched her hand. She wanted to lean in and kiss him.
Did heroines do such things? She believed they did. She pressed her lips to his, reveling in the warmth generated between their bodies beneath the covers.
His eyes flew open. “Insatiable minx,” he whispered, drawing his arms around her.
She giggled into his shoulder. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“And yet you did. Shall we devise a fitting punishment for every time you wake me unintentionally?”
“Are there even enough pages in the journal for that?”
“We can make our own pages.”
He captured her mouth, his hands roaming over her hips, but a discreet knock on the door made him pull back with a groan. “Breakfast with our guests,” he said, sighing.
Our guests. Part of marriage meant they now shared everything—our house and our friends and our dinner and our plans. They were to spend an entire life together, experience each adventure to come side by side.
He rose from bed, and she blushed at his naked backside, though she had more than become acquainted with it last night. This was all still so new. With a playful look over his shoulder, he gathered his clothes and slipped back to his room.
She lay back on her pillow and dramatically threw her elbow over her eyes and grinned like a fool. She was happy! Who could have imagined it? She grinned as her lady’s maid helped her dress, and through breakfast, and as they saw several guests departed for London or other parts. She grinned every time someone called her “Your Grace” and as she went through the business of reviewing the week’s chores and menus with the staff. She grinned as she looked through the many invitations pouring in for the Duke and Duchess of Rivington.
When she and Benjamin sat down to dinner that evening, she was still grinning.
“Did you have a productive day, wife?” he asked.
“Yes, husband,” she answered, unfolding her napkin in her lap. “I have planned our weekly menu, made appointments to visit with several families in town, and accepted a half dozen invitations to London events for the spring. I also thought we could host Christmas at Woodbury for our families and friends, similar to how Sera managed it in the past.”
“Excellent idea,” he said.
“Would you prefer I send your schedule to your man of affairs or pass them to you?”
“My schedule?”
“Yes, for our appointments and dinners.”
“Ah yes. You may give them to me so I can determine whether I can attend. I am due in London, and arrangements with the House of Lords still must be made. There is still much fallout from Cato Street.”
He was leaving? Well, of course, he had responsibilities, but they had yet to discuss them. “Perhaps we can determine the best way to move forward for future invitations,” she said.
“Simply bring them to my attention when merited and I can determine whether I’m able to accommodate.”
“I see.” She set down her fork. “So I am a social secretary, as it were?”
“No, of course not.”
“Tell me, when is your schedule presented to me for approval?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Your man of affairs has stake in your comings and goings, but not your wife?”
He went stone-faced again.
“Ah yes,” she needled, “glower all you want but that does not change my point.” How had things changed so quickly from last night? She had felt in charge and powerful then. Magical, even. Was their marriage meant to be a series of her begging for his attention? Could she even comport herself as such? It was so boring, so drab, so routine.
“You are the Duchess of Rivington,” he said. “And with that comes much power, but not power over my responsibilities to the House of Lords, nor here at Woodbury and our other estates, even as far away as Scotland.”
“Scotland! Already? Are you to leave me here, then? And must I be cast to the sidelines?”
“You are not being cast—”
“Your continual declarations against what I have told you to be my feelings will not make me change my mind.”
“This is unacceptable and bewildering,” he said. “I have treated you with nothing but respect and politeness—”
She flung her napkin on the table and stood, causing him to quiet. To be sure, his points had merit, but respect and politeness? She was shaking at the words and stalked away.
No one of his acquaintance was married, though Lord Savage was easily the most experienced with women, which is what brought Benjamin to his doorstep at his rented flat in Woodbury.
“I had not expected to see you so soon,” Damon said as Benjamin was let into his study. “I was certain you’d still be in bed.”
“Do not speak of my wife in such a manner, and get me a drink.”
Damon poured accordingly as Benjamin plopped down in the chair across from his desk. “Marriage problems so soon?”
“I doubt these are marriage problems, and they are surely only ones that I could have as someone married to Bridget,” he said. “She expects me to seek her counsel as to my schedule and comings and goings.”
“It is novel but not unheard of,” Damon said. “What gives you pause?”
“I’m the Duke of Rivington!” he said.
The beat of silence stretched into two, then three. Damon refilled his drink, the glass of his decanter clinking against his cup.
“My God, I sound like my father,” Benjamin realized.
Benjamin groaned and rested his forehead against the desk. He had witnessed his mother’s deference to his father on so many occasions before her death that he had assumed it normal instead a reflection of his father’s totalitarian rule over the household. He felt sickened by the idea that he would even begin to treat Bridget as his father treated anyone. “I must make it up to her.”
“Well, don’t hurry back,” Damon said. “It still pays to keep the upper hand in some regard.”
“I doubt I’ve ever had the upper hand in our relationship,” he said, “save for what is granted me by law.”
He finished his drink and asked after Damon’s horses. They discussed several ongoing matters Benjamin was having with tenants who were arguing over shared usage of a riverbank, and after another drink, he felt much, much better.
He rode back into Woodbury, eager for another attempt at establishing concord with his wife.
It was unfortunate he had to leave on the morrow to finalize matters in London, but at least he could set things right tonight. He dismounted the horse before it had barely come to a stop and ran up the steps, much to the surprise and dismay of his staff. He wanted to see her again, hold her, and make matters right.
“Where is Lady Abernathy?” he asked his valet when he failed to find her in the library or her bedroom.
“I’ll find out, Your Grace.”
Benjamin sat waiting in the library in case she happened to chance upon him while going about her duties.
“She has left, Your Grace.”
She had mentioned visits with several people in town, he reminded himself. He should have requested her list when she’d offered it. Now he was at a loss as to where she was and how long she’d be gone. Several of the Woodbury residents were notorious gossips. “When is her expected return?”
The valet coughed. “I’m afraid no one knows, Your Grace.”
“Well, who did she visit?”
“Her sister, Your Grace.”
He frowned. “But her sisters are in residence here at present.” They had come for the wedding and had been due to stay the week.
“Not any longer, Your Grace.”
“Are you certain this is wise?” Sera asked, glimpsing the sun setting outside as their carriage rumbled toward Town.
“Absolutely.” But Bridget’s voice was uncertain and meek. It had seemed a grand idea at the time. If he had no interest in her activities, then she would go about them without him.
“I don’t understand,” Sera said. “Was last night … Was he quite … intolerable?”
Her cheeks flushed feverish again. “No,” she said softly. “In that regard, everything was quite exceptional. No, this is about another matter. His high-handed disregard for my opinion.”
“It’s an unfortunate fact that many women have their opinions disregarded by men,” Sera pointed out.
“Perhaps,” Bridget said, “but unlike them, I do not find it acceptable.”
Dear Wife,
It has come to my attention that you’ve taken residence in our Piccadilly flat. Please prepare for my arrival. We had begun a conversation that I am keen to address and finalize.
Your Husband
Dear Husband,
I await your arrival as your faithful and eager servant, subservient to you in all things.
Your Wife
Dear Wife,
Please do not use sarcasm in our correspondence. It is this very matter I wish to discuss.
Your Husband
Dear Husband,
We may discuss whatever it is you choose. I am but a reed to bend to your will.
Your Wife
Dear Wife,
I shall be there tomorrow, and we can begin anew.
Your Husband
Chapter Ten
November 18, 1820
Woodbury, England
To the casual observer, Lady Bridget Abernathy appeared composed and at leisure. She was reclining on a chaise, partially on her side, book in hand. But if one peered closer, they would note that she was also chewing her lip, had been on the same page for hours, and that every time a carriage slowed outside the window, she would poke up her head like a curious cat.
The weather outside the library window was dismal and gray, and the light smattering of snow on the ground had turned into sludge. It was a far cry from the winter she was sure they were experiencing at Woodbury. Before she had left, she had enjoyed the gentle snowfall that covered the green rolling hills and had stared out the frosted window at the placid, half-frozen lake as her lady’s maid had pulled at the laces of her corset. Bridget knew from experience that while the surface of the lake was ice, somehow the water was still warm and colorful fish still darted under the surface. She had walked its perimeter several times, enjoying the burn in her legs, the pull of her lungs, the puffs of her breath fogging the air as she trudged through the snow. She was always breathless by the time she circled the lake and would rest her hands on her hips until her wits were about her. She’d seen the red, blue, and green scales of the fish frantically swimming beneath the smooth ice.
Rather as she felt now.
Had her mother ever felt like this while waiting for her father to return? She wished her mother were here so she could seek her guidance and advice. Alice had the most stories of their mother, and they never involved their mother being angry or upset at her father’s absences, but perhaps, much like Bridget now, she’d been a calm, frozen lake with activity churning beneath. The same way she’d been before she’d slipped away and died.
When she’d been younger and more maudlin, she’d imagined what it was like for her mother to die. Whenever she’d heard the servants whispering about her condition, Mother would merely closed her eyes and slump, the life draining from her body.
She’d been so at peace, they had claimed. But Bridget hadn’t understood then how one’s expression could be as false and deceiving as a player’s mask. Now she knew it all too well.
“His Grace has arrived,” her lady’s maid said, well aware of Bridget’s moods and anxiety. She laid her head back down, trying to ignore the beating of her heart, and waited for Benjamin’s arrival. She heard his boots echoing off the doorway. She expected them to retreat up the stairs or to his study, but they came straight to the library.
He filled the doorway, and her heart thrummed to remember her wedding night, how very firm and strong he had felt in contrast to her own soft flesh. Her mouth went dry at the memories.
“Wife,” he said. Only a single word was uttered, but his voice resonated through her. She sat up, using every ounce of willpower to affect a casual air.
“Husband. I trust your trip was well. How may I be of service?”
He narrowed his eyes. “May we dispense with this game?”
“What game?” she said. “This is our life, I believe. Is there something I can do for you?”
“Enough.” He crossed the room. “I could easily haul you to your feet and take you over my shoulder, but then it would be my choice, my way, wouldn’t it? So Bridget, dear wife, I give you this choice so it is your will and your way. I would like to have a reasonable discussion about what transpired between us, but first, I would like us to adjourn upstairs.”
“Upstairs?”
“To our bedroom.”
She blushed. “Now?”
“Right now,” he growled. “Assuming we can set this aside for a moment. If you please. I have …” His voice softened. “I have missed feeling close to you.”
She blinked, surprised by the admission, and reached for his hand. The gesture was small, but he reacted swiftly and with resolution, hoisting her in his arms and kissing her as he walked out of the library and up the stairs.
“Did you bring the journal?” she asked, tilting her chin as his lips trailed down her neck.
“No, but I brought my imagination.”
“Excellent.”
The next hour was a tangle of sheets and flur
ry of activity that left a sheen on her skin. By the time they were done, she was trying to catch her breath. This could not be how she allowed all their differences to be resolved. At least not forever.
They turned in bed to face each other. Her greedy eyes roamed over him.
His gaze darkened. “It will be difficult to continue a conversation with that distraction.”
“Then speak quickly,” she said.
He raised a surprised brow. “I must tell you I was not happy to find you gone. It made me angry.”
She felt herself bristling at his declaration.
“And it made me realize,” he rushed on, “that you must have felt the same way at the prospect of my leaving without your knowledge, input, and consent. I have erred in that I believed there was only one way for us to engage in our marriage. But you have been showing me … or rather, have shown me,” he amended, “that we are the heroes of our own stories, and we determine our own fates.”
Of all the things she’d imagined he would say, it had not been this, a perfect encapsulation of her feelings. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she leaned forward to kiss him. “I am sorry for running away. I had pictured us an old couple, polite and tired, the distance between us growing greater, and it frightened me.”
“It frightens me, too.”
“But so does the idea of you being able to manage me so easily like this,” she said.
“Easily?” He laughed. “What was easy about this?”
“You, walking in, and then … this.” She gestured to the bed.
His gaze widened, and he leaned in. “You could just as easily manage me,” he offered. With a swift move, he pulled her on top of him to show her exactly what he meant.
The carriage sped down the cobblestones, careening toward the gaming hell. Benjamin had instructed the driver to take liberties to make the ride more exciting, while still keeping them safe inside.
“Are you certain about this?” she asked him.
“Is this your attempt at delay?” Benjamin tipped her chin. She was dressed in the same boy’s clothes as before, the ones that swallowed her feminine figure and hid her soft hair beneath a cap.