Marquesses at the Masquerade

by Emily Greenwood

  “I was gazing into your eyes when I called you beautiful. I hadn’t even noticed your gown.” Then he made a dramatic show of looking at it. “Good God, it’s hideous!”

  “It’s not hideous!” she cried, laughing. “It’s white, boring, and functionary, and not at all romantic.”

  “It’s wonderful to hear you laugh again.” That tender smile she had missed all day finally returned. Its warmth soaked into her bones. She would have thought that being in a bedchamber alone for the first time with her husband would have elicited a case of nerves. Instead, this was the closest she had come to relaxing all day.

  “I brought you a gift.” He held up the package. It was the shape of a book. “I think you can guess what it is.”

  Their hands met as she took the package. Even the brief touch comforted her. But she instinctively drew away, as would be polite, and then remembered that he was her husband now. She could touch him without Society’s censure. So she snuggled against him, letting his heat and scent soothe her.

  “Ahh, Annalise,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her.

  She carefully folded back the paper to reveal a book of botanical illustrations. “It’s lovely,” she whispered, carefully flipping through the pages. “Just lovely.”

  “Did you take notice of the author?”

  She turned the book to the cover. “Mrs. Herbert Brockley,” she marveled. “A woman botanist.”

  “I thought you might be inspired. Perhaps you should consider publishing a book of your illustrations and thoughts.”

  She looked at him comically. “I’m not the scientist. My father was. I merely draw flowers and animals as it pleases me.” She rubbed the book’s title that was embossed in the leather and strolled to the lamp by her bed for better light. She sat on the edge of the mattress and opened the book again. “My father always talked about creating a book, but he never did. I still have all his notes. I brought them with me.”

  He sat beside her. “You should make a book of your work and his in his memory.”

  “Do you really think I could?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  There was no mockery in his expression, as was always present in her uncle’s face, only honest sincerity. He truly thought she was talented. Without thinking, she leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for your faith in me.”

  He studied her, turning her self-conscious.

  He reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear and then let his fingers drift down her long locks and alongside her breast. She shivered, not with dread or nervousness, but with expectation.

  “I only want you to be comfortable when we are together,” he said quietly. “Our courtship was too brief. I can wait as long as you need.”

  Her face heated as she realized he meant their marital intimacy. This was the part where they consummated their marriage, when all their spoken vows translated to their bodies. In her mind flashed an image of their bodies intertwined. Oddly, it didn’t cause her any nervousness. Only want.

  “Can I kiss you?” she asked. “Or must I wait?”

  He smiled and answered with his lips. The kiss started as sweet as yesterday’s did, but a tension gripped her body. She couldn’t get close enough to him. After a terrifying day, she needed his magic. But he drew away, and cold air met her skin.

  “You are so lovely.” His voice was hoarse and thick.

  “Don’t leave me alone tonight,” she implored. “Can you stay here, even if we don’t…” She had spent all her nights alone, feeling the darkness seeming to press upon her and worries accumulating in her mind.

  “I will stay any night you wish.”

  “I wish for all of them. You said I didn’t have to be alone again.”

  He kissed her, his body turning hard, making her aware of the muscles of his arms and chest, the slight roughness of his shaved chin, and the tinge of sweat that mingled with his cologne. Her breasts began to ache, wanting more of what he was giving her. Still, she could feel him hesitate, meting out his love. She needed to give him a sign that he shouldn’t worry about her. She let her hand slide up his chest. When her fingers reached the opening of his robe, his warm, naked skin sent a wild jolt coursing through her body, as did the realization that he wore nothing underneath. She paused, feeling very much in deep waters.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered encouragingly in her ear. The heat of his breath tingled her lobe. “You can touch me. It gives me pleasure. Don’t be nervous.”

  She tentatively let her fingers drift inside his robe, discovering the contours of his chest and belly. She enjoyed the hums of pleasure he gave as she caressed him. Yet, when she reached the patch of curls beneath his stomach, her knuckles accidentally brushed against his swollen sex. It jutted, stone-like and thick. She was arrested, unsure what to do. She could hear his uneven breath rushing by her ear.

  “Annalise,” he murmured.

  He took her hand, keeping his fingers safely over hers as he guided her along his sex. As she explored, his lips sought hers, opening her mouth. His tongue swirled against hers as he taught her how to touch him. His pleasure flowed through her as if they were immersed in the same current. When he opened his eyes, a burning glow in their depths appeared almost predatory, yet his touch was gentle as his lips trailed down her neck and onto her shoulder. His fingers stroked her just under the line of her nightgown, telling her that he wanted more if she would allow him.

  Her nipples hardened, and a wet throb burned between her legs. She reached for the tie string of her gown. He drew back, keeping his gaze fixed on her face as she undid the knot. She drew down the sleeves until her breasts were bared before him. She felt no shyness as he took her in. She wanted to share herself with him. She wanted to be known.

  “Dear Lord,” he whispered. He kissed her lips as he swept his arm beneath her, resting her upon the mattress. Then his mouth glided lower and lower as he drew away her gown, revealing her entire body to him.

  “You’re beautiful, so beautiful,” he said and let his warm tongue lap the tip of her nipple.

  She released a strangled cry. Every small scrap she had picked up along the way about the intimate relations between a husband and wife was very wrong. She always imagined in her daydreams that the bride would be more passive, finding less delight in the act than the husband. Yet, as his tongue fondled her breast, she felt as though she were breaking apart with want. She writhed, pushing against him, driving herself deeper into his mouth. The pleasure was most intense between her legs, where her sex throbbed, wet and swollen.

  He appeared to know how she ached for him. He let his hand drift slowly lower and lower, until his fingers rested outside her sex. There, he lingered. Did he know he was torturing her? Why wasn’t he touching her, or doing something to relieve the desire that burned so strong that it hurt? She bit down on her lips, and her thighs started undulating against the mattress. She couldn’t control them. Her mind might not know how to make love, but her body clearly did. It had carried around the unspoken secret all these years.

  His warm breath tickled her breast. “Wife, you are killing me,” he said in a hoarse whisper, and his finger finally slid lower, coming to light on the mound between her legs. A powerful sensation radiated from where he touched, sending waves across her body. And he kept moving his finger, not letting the pleasure dissipate, but allowing it to build as she whimpered. She had never known such exquisite joy could exist. She kissed his lips, his cheeks, and whispered his name, letting her tongue relish its sounds. Her body began to quake from pleasure. All other thoughts ceased except that he had to be in her body. He had to satisfy that maddening want deep inside her. The course was irreversible now.

  She reached out to him, crying, “I must know you.”

  “We can wait.” His voice was ragged.

  Wait? That’s all she had done for years. Wait for death, wait in silence, wait alone with unrequited love. “No, no, I can’t! Please! Let me give something to you. Let me give you pleasure
too.”

  He bowed his head, taking a deep breath as though steeling himself. Then he came to rest atop her, his robe open, shielding their bodies. She felt safe beneath him, sheltered by him as the cold rain splattered the windows. He kissed her softly, assuring her that she was lovely and brilliant as his sex pressed against her. A spasm of pain ran through her, and she released a high, humming cry as his body entered her body.

  “Dear God,” he cried.

  She became still. She held on to his arms, feeling his body tremble. The pain receded, leaving her to marvel at the sensation of him, his power, his energy, his being inside her. She hadn’t expected his presence to feel profound. Almost sacred. She touched his cheek. He turned his face to kiss her palm. Her gold wedding band gleamed in the light. The wedding vows she had uttered with fear and trepidation in the empty, cold chapel now found peace in her heart. She was a wife now. His true wife. She wouldn’t be alone again.

  Tears burned in her eyes.

  Her dear husband misunderstood and panicked. “We can stop!”

  “No, please, don’t. I—I didn’t know it would be so lovely. I didn’t know.”

  The fear on his face melted away, replaced by a tender smile. His lips brushed her forehead. “And may it always be for us—lovely.”

  He began to move, back and forth, gently. Her body met his, complementing his motion. The intense desire returned, drawing her under its powerful current until her quaking cry mingled with his, and he withdrew, spilling wet heat onto her belly.

  Later, as her spent body rested against his, she felt as though she were floating on warm golden light, even as the rain poured outside. He held her tight to his chest, and she lulled in the reassuring rhythm of his breath and thrum of his heart. She had never felt so safe and fully herself. Did he feel the same? She smiled as she remembered the pleasure on his features as he loved her. She sat up on her elbows and studied his face, taking in all its facets. She had a lifetime now to learn every little thing about him.

  He stroked her damp hair, drawing a strand from her face and locking it behind her ear. A boyish smile lazed on his lips.

  “I guess we waited a half an hour or so,” she observed. “Is that what you meant when you said we could wait?”

  “No.” He tapped her nose. “I was trying to be the good, patient husband, and you spoiled all my best intentions. But in truth, I wanted to make love to you the moment I walked into this chamber and saw you with your lovely hair long and shining. I could see the outlines of your breasts in the gown that you said was boring. I found the sight quite tantalizing.”

  “I shall wear it for you whenever you like,” she said. “And I found your robe quite fetching. In fact, all of you is quite fetching. I can unabashedly say that now since we are married.”

  His eyes turned earnest. “Are you happy you said yes?” he whispered.

  She found she couldn’t answer. The tears threatened again. She could only nod and kiss his lips.

  Chapter Twelve

  * * *

  Exmore needed to tell Annalise about Patrick’s return. They had promised to be honest with each other, and yet, he harbored this little deceit. For the life of him, he couldn’t comprehend the spell Patrick had over her. She possessed a nimble, curious mind and spirited personality. Although Patrick was intelligent enough, he didn’t share Annalise’s passion for learning. His mind was an uncluttered, unquestioning place dictated by the rules of Society. Her love for Patrick made no sense.

  Exmore harbored the idea that if he took good enough care of Annalise, he could make her forget Patrick. This notion was irrational to his thinking mind, because he had given every last drop of his love to Cassandra, but it had never altered her heart. Annalise’s situation was different. Patrick didn’t love her. The love was all on her side, and it wasn’t a secret. Exmore had walked into this marriage with his eyes wide open to the situation.

  Nonetheless, in his heart, he could feel the cold winds blowing Patrick’s sails back to England. What would happen when she saw him? He dreaded to learn. It was one thing to know she loved another man. It would be quite another to see that love shining in her eyes. So he remained silent, protecting his beautiful marriage to his dear friend for as long as he could.

  Theirs was an easy union. There was an abundance to Annalise—she listened, she talked, she laughed, she embraced without reservation. His all-consuming love for Cassandra had drained his energies. He had always been concerned about what she was thinking, always trying to make her happy—something he now realized he could never have done. What Cassandra had taken, Annalise gave back tenfold.

  He cherished how when he walked into a room to find her, a spontaneous smile curved her lips at his sight. When he sat beside her, she automatically reached out to touch him or kiss his cheek. She desired to know the trivial details of his life. She asked about his work in Parliament, the management of estates, even boring business details. At breakfast, they would often read the morning journals and discuss the same articles. He found he didn’t want to attend clubs anymore, because staying at home and conversing with his wife was far more enjoyable. And he liked being there to help her along in her new life.

  The idea of overseeing the domestic details of multiple estates intimidated Annalise, even though she had managed her parents’ home for several years. Exmore did his best to allay her fears, always ready with an encouraging compliment or needed support. Because she was new to the household, she couldn’t readily see, as Exmore could, how the staff had fallen under her spell. She took sincere interest in the lives of their staff, inquiring about the health and family of even the lowest scullery maid. She, with the help of her loyal Mrs. Bailey, sought out little ways to improve the stations of their servants, including designating more living quarters, rationing more tea and candles, and having newer garments sewn.

  Each day with Annalise carried that tingling excitement akin to children planning their day’s adventure. One or two times a week, Exmore and Annalise visited Kew Gardens or attended lectures together, where she would sit forward in her seat, mesmerized. He chuckled to himself that his wife was more entranced by comets or the chemical elements than how to fashion her bonnet. Later, they might wander to their favorite tea shop, where they stayed too long, lost in conversation, while secretly holding hands beneath the table. On days when they remained at home, one or all of Annalise’s cousins might call with her Aunt Sally. Although Annalise wouldn’t admit it, Exmore could see she was quietly exerting her own sway over her cousins, drawing them away from her uncle’s influence and expanding their education. Exmore, to his surprise, found he didn’t mind their boisterous presence. He enjoyed having a family about. An effervescent happiness filled his London house, which had been dormant with gloom for too long.

  In the evenings, he and Annalise ventured to the parties, where they remained at each other’s side as they met other couples. But as the hours wore on, Annalise would give him a dusky, sensual look, and he would immediately call for the carriage to take them home. There, they would make love into the early hours. Then he would drift off to sleep with the comforting warmth of her body against his. In the morning, they would make love again.

  One of the many things that endeared him to his new wife was her unabashed lusty nature. Often, an innocent little kiss in his parlor led to a frolic on his desk. He was making love more frequently than he ever had in his life. It was only a matter of time before Annalise began increasing. He couldn’t dispel the remaining fear from Cassandra’s sad pregnancy. It remained lodged inside him, even as he tried to reassure himself with what the physicians had told him. Cassandra’s condition had been a rare one, further compounded by an acute chill.

  However, one early morning several weeks after their marriage, Exmore tried to push down the anxious thoughts of Annalise’s pending pregnancy and Patrick’s return as the fresh light fell softly on Annalise’s sleeping face. For the first time in a long, long while, he was happy.

  He brushed An
nalise’s creamy shoulder with his lips, taking in her sweet, earthy scent—the flower and the soil. She smiled in her light sleep. He studied her a moment more, marveling at the serenity that enveloped her, and then rose and donned his robe, which had draped the vanity chair. He glanced about his wife’s chamber, taking in the objects and things that were hers—the Indian shawl he gave her, her perfume bottle, the simple ruby necklace that had been her mother’s. He had kissed her neck as he had unclasped it when they returned from the theater the previous evening, and then he had slowly proceeded to remove the remainder of her clothes. He smiled at the remembrance of their lovemaking.

  He walked quietly by the walls, studying her father’s images hanging there. He would never tell her that he thought she possessed far more talent, both artistically and scientifically, than her father. He stopped at her writing desk where the leather portfolios of her work rested. He opened the top one, so he could view her drawings and descriptions. He enjoyed studying them alone when he could slowly take in all the different elements she labored over. Otherwise, she would anxiously flit about him, finding fault in her stunning work.

  He realized he had the wrong portfolio when he drew out a correspondence. He was carefully putting it back when the name Patrick leaped off the page. He hesitated and glanced at the bed. His wife made a soft humming sound as she shifted in her sleep.

  No, he shouldn’t read her correspondence. He started to replace the page, but then yanked it out again.

  Dear Patrick, I’ve made a horrible mistake. What have I done? What have I done? It was supposed to be you. I was supposed to marry you…

  What?

  He reread and reread the words, as if the more he read them, he could, somehow, make them unreal. His heart raced as he pulled out more and more letters. He couldn’t stop himself. Dear Patrick… Dear Patrick… There must have been thousands of letters. A sickening sensation knotted in his gut.