by Anne Gracie
She felt a sudden prickling of tears. She hadn’t expected this at all.
The duke held up his hand and there was instant silence. “My duchess and I thank you for your warm wishes,” he said. “Will you join us in a toast? Champagne for everyone, Fleming.” And with no delay at all, champagne corks popped and fizzing glasses were passed around—even to the young girl who George thought was the scullery maid. The butler, Fleming, made a short speech and then proposed a toast to the happy couple. Everyone drank, then, as if at a prearranged signal, the entire staff melted away, and George and the duke were left alone.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “I’ve given the servants the night off. More private that way.”
The butterflies returned to her stomach. “Not at all,” she managed.
He held out his hand. “Shall we go upstairs?”
George swallowed. He really was going to do it, consummate the marriage—now. They’d be late to the wedding breakfast and everyone would know what they’d been doing. But they were married; she had no option but to go with him.
He led her upstairs, to a room that was obviously his bedchamber. The faint scent of his cologne hung in the air. The furniture was heavy and dark. In the center of the room sat a huge carved wooden bed, hung with rich dark red fabric. It would take place there, then.
“Take a seat and wait here,” he said. “Don’t look so worried, I won’t be long.” He went through into a small room off his bedchamber.
Take a seat? There was no seat, only the enormous bed. She waited. What was he doing? Getting undressed? Should she get undressed too?
After a while—it felt like an age to George but the clock on the mantel said only five minutes had passed—the duke returned—fully dressed—with a flat box in his hand. He handed it to her. It was covered with faded velvet.
Cautiously she opened it. And stared.
“My grandmother’s rubies. A little old-fashioned, perhaps—”
“No, they’re beautiful.”
“I thought they might suit you. She too was noted for her restrained elegance.”
Restrained elegance? Was that how he saw her? The compliment warmed her. George didn’t feel either restrained or elegant, but perhaps she could aspire to that—in her dress, at least.
The jewels glowed even in the dim light of the bedchamber. The rubies were large, and the setting was finely wrought gold, but the necklace itself gave the impression of delicacy. It really was lovely. And very expensive.
“I had them cleaned last week. There’s a ring, a bracelet, a brooch, earrings and a tiara, but you won’t need the tiara yet.” The necklace glittered in his long strong fingers as he lifted it out of the box and held it up against the light, and then next to her dress. “Yes, the exact right shade. I thought it might be. Turn around.”
He turned her away from him. She could see their reflection in the long cheval mirror. She looked pale and nervous; he looked dark and severely handsome as he bent his head, frowning over the catch of the necklace. Her husband . . .
She took several deep breaths and tried to will some color into her cheeks.
The necklace felt heavy and cold around her neck, but his fingers were warm as they brushed across her skin. With his hands resting on her shoulders, he met her gaze in the looking glass. “Perfect,” he breathed, then bent and pressed a warm kiss on the sensitive skin of her nape.
A shiver of heat rippled through her and without conscious volition her eyelids fluttered closed and she leaned back into his body.
After a moment he moved back and, feeling a little embarrassed, she remembered to open her eyes and look at the necklace in the mirror. It was a perfect match for the dress.
“Earrings?” He handed her a dainty pair of ruby earrings and she put them in, then turned her head back and forth, examining them in the looking glass. “They’re lovely.” She didn’t often wear earrings—she’d only had her ears pierced when she came to London—but these were pretty.
“Now these.” He clasped the bracelet around her wrist, then slid the ring onto her finger, next to her bright gold wedding ring. The ring was unusual, a square-cut ruby, the setting the same intricate gold design. He stood back to examine the overall effect. “What do you think? Not too old-fashioned?”
The earrings danced as she shook her head. “No, they’re beautiful. Antique, rather than old-fashioned. Thank you, d—” She broke off. She couldn’t keep calling him duke. “What should I call you? Redmond, as your mother does, or would you prefer me to call you Everingham? Or Hart, like your friend Mr. Sinclair does?”
He considered it. “My mother calls me Redmond, but I’ve never liked the name. But I don’t mind what you call me.”
She grinned. “Ooh, dangerous suggestion. That leaves the choice wide open.” She thought about the rubies that were his grandmother’s. “What did your grandmother call you?”
“Redmond.” He wrinkled his nose.
“Then I think I’ll call you Hart, as your friends do. Thank you, Hart. And I am honored and delighted to be wearing your grandmother’s beautiful jewels.” She stepped forward, raised herself on her toes and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
He looked down at her, an odd, intense look in his eyes. “No, it’s I who should thank you.” His voice was husky. Then seeing the question in her eyes, he added, “For marrying me.” He drew her slowly toward him.
Cupping her cheek in one hand he kissed her mouth, a mere brush of skin against skin, the barest whisper of a kiss, but sensation shivered through her, a delicate spiral of pure heat. She leaned in closer, wanting more, and slipped her hands around his waist.
He pulled her hard against him, wrapping his arms around her and tightening his hold so they stood chest to chest, stomach to stomach, thigh to thigh. And mouth to mouth.
His mouth was warm, demanding and she opened to him. The taste of him flooded her senses, potent as brandy.
Moving as one, they moved back toward the bed, kissing. His kisses robbed her of all thought. The backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed and she sank onto the mattress.
He released her and stepped back. Confused, still dazed, she blinked up at him.
His smile was rueful. “I know, but we have a wedding breakfast to attend.” His chest was heaving as though he’d run a mile.
“Oh.” She couldn’t keep the disappointment from her voice. “I thought . . .”
“We have all night for that.” His voice was deep, rich as thick dark chocolate with the promise of the night to come.
Gathering her shredded composure, she managed to stand. With shaking hands she tidied her hair in the looking glass, straightened her dress, then turned to go. And met his intense, heated, approving gaze. There was a world of dark promise in that look.
She blushed as red as her dress and the rubies around her neck.
Chapter Eighteen
Her heart did whisper that he had done it for her.
—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
They were the last to arrive at the wedding breakfast, and George was surprised to see that the guests’ reactions were less about the bride and groom’s lateness, or even the color of her dress, and all about the ruby set she was now wearing.
Aunt Agatha marched up to her saying, “I cannot believe the spectacle you made of yourself—of us all—” She broke off, her eyes bulging, then produced her lorgnette and took a closer look.
“The famous Hartley parure! How did you get that?”
“How do you think?” George retorted, insulted by her great-aunt’s tone. “The duke gave it to me.”
Aunt Agatha glanced at the duke, who was talking to some other guests. “It’s a disgrace! To give it to you, after your outrageous appearance at the church.”
“Why shouldn’t he give his bride jewels?” Emm asked. “I think it’s a lovely gesture and the
rubies go perfectly with George’s dress.”
Aunt Agatha eyed the dress and winced. “The less said about that wretched dress the better—you know, of course, what everyone has been saying.”
“The duke didn’t seem to mind it, Aunt Agatha, and really, isn’t that all that matters?” Emm said mildly. “It’s unconventional, certainly, but the color suits her.”
“I don’t give tuppence for what everyone is saying, Aunt Agatha,” George told the old lady. “It’s mostly hot air, spite and envy, and for all I care the gossips can choke on it.” She smiled. “And the duke told me he liked my dress.”
“Pfft! What choice did he have?”
George touched the jewels at her throat. “He didn’t have to give me these jewels either, but he did.” She realized now why he’d given them to her before the wedding breakfast—so that all the guests would see and know that she had his approval and support. She was deeply touched by the thoughtfulness—and loyalty—of the gesture.
The duke was turning out to be rather different from the man she thought she knew.
Aunt Agatha glanced at the rubies and pursed her lips. “He should never have done so. His mother should have had them years ago—I know she asked for them often enough. They’re priceless, a treasured family heirloom, but the old duchess always refused to hand them over. Claimed they weren’t part of the entail and so she could choose who to give them to.” She shook her head. “But to give them to you, and after your disgraceful appearance at the church. Truly outrageous.”
Aunt Dottie bustled forward and gave George a warm hug. “You look stunning, dear girl—and oh! I see you’re wearing the famous Hartley parure. The old dowager duchess would have approved, I know.”
“And how would you know, Dorothea?” her sister said in an acid voice.
Aunt Dottie gave George a mischievous wink. “I know she despised her daughter-in-law, Aggie, dear. And our darling George is going to make her grandson very happy, so of course she would have loved her and wanted her to wear her jewels—especially as they suit her so well.”
George glanced at the duke on the other side of the room, talking to several men she didn’t know. Would she make him happy? She had no idea. Would he make her happy? She had even less of an idea.
* * *
* * *
They reached Everingham House just as evening was falling. Hart considered carrying her over the threshold, but then decided she’d probably hate it. Besides, there was nobody to open the door; he’d given the servants the night off.
She’d been very quiet on the way, hadn’t said a word.
The house was in darkness, except for a soft glow coming from inside the front entrance hall. He pulled out his key and opened the door. His butler, Fleming, had left a candle lamp burning on the hall table.
Not for the first time Hart wished he’d overruled his mother on the subject of gas lighting. It was brighter in the street outside than it was in his house.
“When you redecorate, we’ll get gas lighting installed,” he told his bride as he lit another candle lamp.
“When I redecorate?” She grimaced. “Rose or Lily are the ones for that kind of thing. I have no interest in wallpaper and suchlike. I grew up in a run-down old farmhouse and never saw anything wrong with it.”
“Never mind; there are people we can hire.” He picked up a lamp and passed the other to her. “I was really thinking about the light. My mother preferred candlelight to gaslight.”
She nodded. “More flattering to aging skin, I expect. I don’t mind candles though.” She glanced around. “Where are we going?”
“Upstairs.” Where else? They’d eaten and drunk their fill at the wedding breakfast and she’d delayed leaving far beyond the usual time for a bridal couple to depart. She’d even wanted to change into her everyday clothes and take her dog for a walk, until her uncle had volunteered to take care of the dog himself, leaving her with no more excuses.
She was nervous—he’d watched it coming on all through the afternoon. She hadn’t been at all anxious when they’d been here earlier; she’d been eager for him then. But now bridal nerves had set in.
She gave a jerky nod, gathered the skirt of her glorious dress up in one hand, and started up the stairs, the lamp held high. The candlelight shimmered in the folds of the rich fabric and danced in the rubies at her ears.
She paused on the landing. “Where do I sleep?”
He gestured to the open door. “We sleep in my room, of course. In my bed.” Oh, yes, she was nervous, all right.
She hung back, loitering on the landing. “You married me for my horse,” she said, striving for lightness, “so maybe you should sleep with Sultan.” Her skin was almost colorless in the soft light.
He laughed softly, caught her by the hand and drew her slowly against him. “I don’t think so.”
She stiffened, and then pulled away. What the devil was the matter? She’d been afire for him before the wedding breakfast. What had changed?
Bridal nerves, he decided. “I’ll light some more candles.” He set hers on a side table, then entered his bedroom and used his candle to light a dozen or so of the candles that his staff had set around the room. Lanterns would throw a better light, but he had a vague notion that a nervous bride might be more comfortable in candlelight.
He’d turned, having expected her to follow him inside. Instead she had remained on the landing. He went to her, and was surprised when she took a step back.
“Before . . . before I go in there, I need to warn you.” She bit her lip, looking troubled.
He stiffened. “Warn me? About what?”
She took a deep breath and said in a rush, “I might not be a virgin.”
“What?”
“I said, I might not be a virgin.” She hesitated, then added, “I remember you saying once to Rose, Virginity is a requirement for any bride of mine.”
He stared at her dumbfounded. Why had she waited until after the wedding to share this interesting fact with him? It was a little late now to be confessing the sins of her past. Not that it would have made any difference to him. “What do you mean you ‘might not be’? Either you are or you aren’t.”
She scowled. “It’s ridiculous anyway, requiring brides to be virgins. You’re not a virgin, so why should I be?”
He said through gritted teeth, “Are you or are you not?”
“It’s only so that men can make sure any children of a marriage are theirs, but there’s no way to ensure that, except the woman’s own personal honor.”
“A woman’s honor?”
“Yes, a bride can be a virgin on her wedding night but betray her husband with a groom or a footman or another gentleman shortly afterward—and who can be sure of the father? Not even the woman, sometimes. Unless she’s a person of honor.”
“Are you?”
Her eyes flashed with indignation. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that. If I weren’t a woman of honor, I never would have married you.”
“I know that. I meant, are you a virgin?”
“Oh.” There was a short silence. “I don’t know.”
“How can you not know?”
She flushed. “People say—well, Martha used to say, and she wasn’t the only one—that if a girl rode a horse bareback—and astride—she would, um, not be a virgin. That it would um, rupture the, um, maidenhead.” She looked away, her cheeks flaming, lips pressed together. She swallowed convulsively, then turned to face him. “I used to ride bareback and astride all the time. So . . .”
Relief rushed through him. So she wasn’t about to confess some sordid past. Candlelight flickered and danced across her profile. She looked young and uncertain and vulnerable. And sweet and brave and true.
He took her hand in his. “It doesn’t matter.”
She hesitated. “You don’t mind?”
“Not a
t all. Whether or not you are physically a virgin now, it will make no difference to our future.”
“Are you sure? Because if I’m not, I don’t want you throwing it up in my face whenever we quarrel.”
He arched a brow. “Will we quarrel?”
“We’re bound to.”
“I see. Well, as long as we make it up in bed, I’ll accept that. And whatever the outcome, I promise I won’t throw your virginity or lack of it in your face. In fact, I’m already bored with the subject. Can we go to bed now?”
She nodded and allowed him to lead her into his bedroom.
George glanced around the duke’s bedchamber. His servants had obviously prepared it. In the soft candlelight, everything gleamed with care and attention. As she’d observed earlier in the day, it was a very masculine room, with heavy carved furniture and curtains and bedcovers of rich dark red brocade, but now vases of flowers sat on the mantelpiece and on top of a chest of drawers. The delicate fragrance of the flowers mingled with the sharp, clean tang of beeswax. The furniture had been newly polished.
His enormous bed seemed bigger than ever. The heavy brocade coverlet was turned back invitingly, revealing fresh white sheets and pillows.
“Your staff has made a special effort.” She was pleased to hear she sounded almost normal, despite the butterflies thundering around her stomach.
He glanced around vaguely. “Have they? I hadn’t noticed. Oh, yes, flowers.” He pulled off his cravat and tossed it aside, then turned back to her. “Would you like me to act as your maid?”
Her maid? She gave him a blank stare.
He smiled. “I meant, do you need my help unfastening your gown? There being no one else in the house.”
“Erghmh.” Her mouth had gone completely dry.
Taking that as assent, he gently turned her around and began to undo her dress.
He stood close, so close she was aware of every point on her body where his body brushed against hers. She closed her eyes briefly and inhaled the scent of him. The spicy tang of his cologne and the scent of sun-dried sheets mingled with the fragrance of beeswax and flowers, but pleasant though they were, the scent that drew her, enticed her, aroused her was the warm, darkly enticing man scent of his body. Aroma of desire.