Under The Wishing Star

by Farr, Diane

  A stranger stood there—a slim, dark-haired stranger with enormous, very serious eyes. She was gracefully attired in the most elegant frock imaginable. Her hair was perfect. Her dress was perfect. A veil floated about her like mist from a waterfall. Her expression was dazed, but luminous. Sweet. Pensive. And she was holding Natalie’s bridal bouquet.

  But there was no time to adjust to the sight of herself as the piece of perfection in the mirror. It was time. It was past time. They must go.

  Nurse, also decked in new clothes, bustled her down the stairs and into the waiting carriage. Natalie caught only a glimpse of it: a strange carriage, waiting for her in front of a stranger’s house. Too rich, too gorgeous. There was a crest on the door panel. The horses were perfectly matched, like horses in a dream. The driver and footman were wearing the livery of a duke’s household. She could not seem to make sense of it. She could not take it in. Everything was happening too fast.

  The carriage rocked and swayed. London passed by the windows in shades of gray, filmed with dew. Hanover Square. The carriage halted. The door opened. A footman stood at attention, holding an umbrella. Natalie stepped down and Nurse led her into St. George’s.

  She had never been here before. It was all strange, all unfamiliar. Music played. Malcolm must have arranged for music. How thoughtful. She stepped through a door and paused. Derek and Malcolm stood at the end of what seemed, to her, a very long aisle. Across from them stood Nurse. They were all waiting for her. Between them stood a clergyman whom she had never seen in her life.

  Malcolm looked wonderful. Derek seemed to be fighting back emotion. Strange…Natalie felt no emotion whatsoever. Malcolm caught his breath when he saw her, as if she were a miraculous vision. Natalie smiled at this agreeable foolishness. She floated down the aisle toward him, utterly serene and perfectly detached.

  She handed her bouquet to Nurse. At the vicar’s instruction, she placed one cold hand in Malcolm’s. Words were said. Prayers were uttered. The sounds seemed to beat and quiver in the air around her, holy and incomprehensible. The candles were smoking. Someone should snuff them, she thought.

  She looked up into Malcolm’s face. His eyes burned down at her like two blue coals, tender but full of fire. He spoke ancient words of love and committal to her. Parroting the vicar, she spoke to Malcolm, dreamily repeating the words he bade her say. Malcolm placed a ring on her finger. His hands were shaking. Hers were perfectly steady. Nurse whisked out a handkerchief and surreptitiously blew her nose. Was Nurse weeping? Dear old Nurse. How queer this all was.

  And then it was over. She was a married woman. Malcolm kissed her. Derek kissed her. Nurse kissed her. Nurse kissed Malcolm. Nurse kissed Derek. Derek pumped Malcolm’s hand ferociously, beaming with goodwill. Everyone seemed so happy. Even the vicar, or whatever he was, moved toward her, smiling. She drew back instinctively. She did not know this man. For all she knew, he wasn’t even an ordained minister. Not a real one.

  She could not be married—not really married. It had all been too easy. Too artificial. When she married, she would marry in the church she had attended all her life, surrounded by her friends and family and old, familiar things. Reverend Wentwhistle would marry her, just as he had married all her friends. He had married everyone she ever knew since time began.

  A pang of hot sorrow reached her through the fog of unreality. She had made a dreadful mistake. She ought never have agreed to the special license, to London, to this empty church and unknown vicar. In doing so, she had forfeited forever the wedding she had dreamed of all her life. Why had this not occurred to her? Loss keened through her. Too late, too late.

  More dazed than ever, she signed her name beneath Malcolm’s in an enormous ledger. Derek signed as first witness. Nurse signed as second witness. The vicar handed her her marriage lines. She stared at them, uncomprehending. Derek took the sheet from her, saying jovially that he would keep it safe for the time being, but what about breakfast? The others laughed.

  As the wedding party stepped out the church door, the sun broke out. Colors sprang to life and the wet surfaces of London blazed with glittering light. “A good omen,” Nurse declared, and everyone laughed again. The air all around her seemed to fizz with high spirits. Why did she not feel merry? What was wrong with her?

  Dazzled by the onslaught of brightness, Natalie raised a hand to shield her eyes. There was too much light. It had arrived too suddenly. She didn’t want it; it hurt. But Malcolm was at her side, his hand at her waist. He guided her steps toward the carriage that would take them to their wedding breakfast.

  It felt strange to allow him to touch her so publicly, so possessively. But he’s your husband. A little thrill of amazement shivered through her. She tried on the notion another way: you are Malcolm’s wife. One seemed as incredible as the other.

  She floated through the breakfast. It was extremely elegant. Although they had been excluded from the service, Malcolm had invited two of his aunts and their families to the breakfast, and Natalie had invited her stepmother. Lucille seemed completely cowed by the grand company she found herself in. She barely spoke, for which Natalie was grateful. Meanwhile, Natalie bowed and smiled and accepted everyone’s compliments and best wishes as gracefully as if she received such attentions every day of her life. It was easy to remain unflustered. All the kind remarks were addressed to “Lady Malcolm,” not to Natalie.

  Mrs. Bigalow, as a witness to the wedding, was included at the breakfast. Everyone was extremely courteous to her—even Lucille, although it did seem to stick in her craw to be forced to sit at table with her son’s old nurse. Champagne was served. Toasts were made. Natalie nibbled at her food and barely touched her champagne. No one seemed to notice her odd detachment.

  She wondered if she were feverish, or if someone had slipped an opiate into her morning tea. Neither explanation seemed likely. On the other hand, nothing that had happened to her this morning seemed likely.

  She kept staring at her wedding ring. She was very aware of it. It felt heavy on her hand. The gold was beautiful to behold: bright and smooth and flawless. As years went on, she thought, scratches and dents would mar its liquid glimmer. It would not always gleam with the polished luster that it had today. At its heart, however, the gold was incorruptible and would never dull. The thought was oddly comforting.

  The meal seemed to go on and on. The day seemed to go on and on. After the breakfast, there was still no time for quiet reflection, no time to adjust to her new situation. Her heart sank, and Malcolm was visibly annoyed, when a stream of visitors descended on them. Somehow, word of the Chase nuptials had circulated.

  Natalie knew none of the haut ton and, after spending several hours enduring the curious stares of a parade of haughty strangers, she didn’t care if she never saw any of them again. Their names and faces were a complete blur to her. The entire day was a blur to her. When there was a momentary break between callers, Malcolm seized the opportunity to tell his butler, “That’s it. No more. I don’t care if the Prince of Wales is descending from his carriage this instant and sees the last lot departing—Lord and Lady Malcolm are not at home.”

  The butler closed the door noiselessly behind him as he left. Malcolm dropped onto the sofa beside Natalie, comically feigning exhaustion. “Phew! Getting married is a tiring business.”

  She could not help smiling. Just to be alone with him lifted a little of the fog that had enveloped her. She peeped sideways at him. “Am I really Lady Malcolm? It sounds so peculiar.”

  His arm went around her, across the back of the sofa. “What, the name? That’s the curse you must endure when marrying a duke’s younger son. It could be worse.” He winked at her. “How would you like to be Lady Fred?”

  She chuckled, feeling more of her connection to reality return. “Fred is not a real name. I would be Lady Frederick, which sounds well enough. But that is not what I meant, and you know it.”

  She looked up at him, her expression softening. She felt much better when she looked at hi
m. Malcolm’s eyes were so kind. She had thought them bleak and remote not so long ago, but the warmth of their summer friendship had melted most of the ice that had once lurked there. He smiled more these days, and appeared more relaxed. Had she done this for him? She hoped so.

  He smiled at her now, understanding in his gaze. “It must be odd to be a woman, and change one’s identity merely by wedding a chap.”

  So he did understand, at least in part. Relief and gratitude warmed her. “Yes,” she admitted. “Although it’s ridiculous to feel so, because it’s not as if it takes one unawares. A girl knows from childhood how things are. And nevertheless, I’ve been feeling utterly disoriented all day.”

  “Shall you miss being a Whittaker?”

  “I shall miss…” She paused and thought for a moment, and was mildly surprised when nothing specific occurred to her. A slow smile crept across her face. “In truth, I shall miss nothing at all.” What a ninny she was being. Shakespeare’s words came to mind: What’s in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Some of the tension left her shoulders, and she leaned lazily back against Malcolm’s arm. “I like your name.”

  He kissed her, then, of course. Natalie gave herself up to the pleasure of it. I love you, Malcolm. She would let her kiss express what she dared not say aloud. She shifted against him, aching with tenderness. How could he not sense it? Oh, Malcolm, love me. Love me just a little.

  She had learned, during the past week, that he would see nothing amiss in her wanton response to his touch. He seemed to accept her passion for him without reading anything extraordinary into it. At first she had been terrified that her weakness for his kisses betrayed her feelings for him. She soon discovered that it apparently did not, and since making that discovery she had allowed her emotions to relieve themselves in unrestrained outpouring whenever he kissed her.

  He didn’t seem to notice at all.

  His obtuseness had puzzled her mightily—even hurt a little, although she was grateful for it—until she remembered something she had heard: that men were able to feel desire for women they did not love. That had cleared matters up considerably. For one thing, it explained why Malcolm was able to kiss her so ardently. For another, it explained why he took her response to him in stride. Some women, she surmised, experienced desire separate from love, the way that men did. She did not, but Malcolm did not seem to know it.

  He broke the kiss and lifted his face a few inches from hers. “Lady wife,” he murmured. His deep voice sent a shiver of delight through her. “Do you fear the marriage bed?”

  “No,” she whispered. At this moment, it did not feel like a lie.

  She could feel his need for her rachet up at her denial. Something like a growl sounded in his throat, and his hands came up to cradle her face. The ferocity of his expression was belied by the gentleness of his touch. “Thank God for that,” he muttered. “Have you any experience of men, Natalie?”

  She almost laughed, the question was so ludicrous. She had no experience of men whatsoever. Malcolm was the first man to kiss her since…well, she didn’t like to think how long it had been. On the other hand, she had been kissed before. Not once, but twice. They had been chaste, respectful kisses, but kisses they definitely had been. That should count for something.

  Somehow she doubted that her experience of men had adequately prepared her for whatever would happen tonight.

  She opened her lips to tell him so, then changed her mind. Why must he know that no man had ever touched her? Why should she tell him something that might cheapen her in his eyes? Men wanted what other men wanted. Let him think she had been desired. Let him think that someone, perhaps a few someones, had wanted her badly enough to give her…experience of men.

  Besides, if she confessed her utter and complete virginity, he might wonder at the passion she displayed in her kisses. He might put two and two together, and come up with four. He might realize that she loved him. That would never do.

  “Experience?” she murmured, stalling for time. “A little.” She purred the phrase, dropping her eyelids in a way calculated to obscure her meaning. She would not be dishonest, but at least she could be sly.

  A look of rueful chagrin twisted Malcolm’s mouth downward. “Don’t worry,” he growled, laughing at himself a little. “I won’t ask for the particulars. I think I advised you once, long ago, not to ask questions if you don’t want to hear the answers.”

  He stood, dropping a kiss on the top of her head, and walked to the door. She watched him go, surprised by his abrupt departure—but he went only to the door, not beyond it. He turned the key in the lock and walked back to her.

  Natalie felt a frisson of excitement that was not quite fear, and not quite eagerness, but some odd fusion of the two. Something new was about to happen, she felt sure of it. But surely not…surely not anything much. They were in the drawing room, for pity’s sake. And it was still broad daylight.

  But there was an unfamiliar light in his eyes. And then she recognized it: pleasurable anticipation. She felt her pulse begin to race. His lips curved in a half smile. He stretched out his hand to her and she instinctively placed her hand in his. He pulled her to her feet and into his arms.

  They were married. The door was locked, and they would not be disturbed.

  Malcolm kissed her. He had never kissed her behind closed doors before, and she felt the difference immediately. He placed one knee between her thighs as he kissed her, plastering her against his body. Her breasts were crushed to his chest, her pelvis against his pelvis. For the first time, she was vividly aware of his arousal; she could feel the proof of it pressing, almost grinding, against her. She gasped at the novel sensation, then dove back into his kiss, too thrilled to feel shocked.

  Even the kiss itself was different. Hotter. Wetter. Her head swam. Her heart pounded. His thigh seemed so much longer than hers, incredibly strong, hugely muscled. She could feel his thigh muscles bunch and strain against her body. His very masculinity took her breath away.

  The locked door emboldened her. She writhed against him, eager for more. Teach me. Show me. He muttered some exclamation under his breath, then took her mouth again. Delirious with feeling, she clung to him. Oh, Malcolm.

  His fingers, slipping on the silk of her dress, ran greedily over her. He explored her as a blind man would, seeking to know her every curve and plane. She gave herself completely to the heady feelings his touch evoked. It was more exciting than anything she had ever dreamed of, being touched in this way, by this man. She felt cherished and desired. Desirable. Desiring.

  She slid her hands inside his jacket and ran them along his waistcoat, wishing she could unbutton it. She could feel the heat of him through the thin linen of his shirt, but the waistcoat was in her way. She pulled out of the kiss and burrowed her face into his cravat, gasping for air, gulping in the warm, spicy scent of him.

  His lips were in her hair. “Natalie,” he said hoarsely, then gave a choked-sounding laugh. “How many hours till bedtime?”

  Bedtime. For a moment, the sense of unreality gripped her again. Was it the thought of sharing a bed with Malcolm that made her suddenly feel dizzy? Or was this the effect of too many kisses and not enough air? She leaned back against the circle of his arms, still trying to catch her breath. “I don’t know.”

  “Too many.” His eyes held a wicked gleam. “I think it’s only natural to feel worn down after a day filled with so much excitement. What say you, wife? Shall we go early to bed?”

  She knew she was blushing. She dropped her gaze to the topmost button of his waistcoat. “If you like,” she said, suddenly feeling absurdly shy.

  “If I like?” Soundless laughter shook him. “What a complaisant wife I have.”

  She shot him a mischievous look. “I did promise to obey,” she reminded him demurely. “Although I don’t know what possessed me, to make such a rash promise. You must have caught me in a moment of weakness.”

  “As long as I caught you, I don’t care how.” He le
t out his breath in a sigh. “I’m a lucky man,” he said, apparently bemused. “And I never was a lucky man, until I met you.” He lifted one hand to her hair, curling a stray tendril around his finger. She smiled at the gesture. It tickled her that he was so fascinated by the curls that had always been such a trial to her.

  His eyes searched hers, suddenly serious. “Why did you wait for me, Natalie? Why didn’t you marry long ago?”

  Oh, she knew the answer to that one. I never loved till now. She wished she could say it aloud. Failing that, what could she say? Malcolm seemed to think her spinsterhood was inexplicable, but it had been easy to stay single, living the narrow life Natalie had led. There had been few eligible men in the neighborhood. She had had no opportunity to look elsewhere. Her stepmother had never expended the necessary energy—or funds—to see that she was introduced to a broader circle. Lucille had never brought her to London for a Season. Natalie had never gone away to school, so she had no friends who might invite her. In truth, the miracle was not that she had stayed single for so long. The miracle was that she had married.

  He was still waiting for her answer. She tilted her chin as if considering, then shook her head. “I cannot account for it,” she said lightly, teasing him. “And I cannot account for your sudden good fortune. It’s inexplicable.” Emboldened by their new intimacy, she reached to push a lock of Malcolm’s dark, straight hair off his forehead, then moved her face very close to his. “Unless…” She touched her mouth to his.

  “Unless what?” he murmured, the words moving his lips deliciously against hers.

  She smiled against his mouth. “You finally wished on the right star,” she breathed, and kissed him.