The Wedding Affair

by Leigh Michaels

  “Watch out there, Simon. Talking about nurseries and remembering little girls’ names… You’re starting to sound like a man who’s ready to settle down.”

  “And you’re starting to look like one who’s had his wings clipped. Do you always jump when the heiress demands it?”

  Charles’s voice was low and even. “That’s my countess you’re referring to, Simon.”

  Simon could have cheerfully eaten the words. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound… I’m sorry, Charles. Daphne’s breaking out the archery equipment tomorrow. If you’d like to take a shot at me for that insult, I’ll stand still and pretend to be the target.”

  “No—it wouldn’t be sporting, to say nothing of raising too many questions. How about I beat you senseless in a game of billiards instead?”

  “Good idea. And since I appreciate your gentlemanly conduct, I’ll let you win.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Charles stood up and stretched. “Shall we go down?”

  “Surely you can’t mean right now.”

  Charles laughed. “So you do have plans for tonight!”

  The door of the second bedroom—the Countess of Townsend’s room—opened, and a stern-looking maid came out with a neat pile of clothing in her arms. She glared at the gentlemen before she stalked off down the hall toward the back stairs.

  “She must be one dragon of a female,” Simon said under his breath. “No wonder you were waiting here till she cleared out. Have a good night, Charles.” He waited until the earl closed the door behind him and then considered his options. He could go back to his room and try again later, roughly doubling the risk of being spotted. He could wait for Olivia in her room, but hadn’t Charles said her maid was there?

  He heard voices from the foot of the stairs—Lady Stone and the colonel, he thought, debating which of them owed the other ten guineas. “It was not a fair bet,” Lady Stone said firmly, and Simon heard the deeper notes of the colonel’s voice as he argued his case.

  Simon hoped the colonel came out the winner. Lady Stone could afford her bets, but Simon suspected the old soldier couldn’t.

  The voices drew nearer as the pair started up the stairs. With just moments to decide between his options—rushing down the hall to his own room, or bursting into Olivia’s and hoping her maid wasn’t there—Simon found himself instead sprinting straight up the stairway all the way to the top, where the nursery was tucked under Halstead’s sloping roof.

  He’d forgotten how low the ceilings were here. Even the passage running down the center of the house, where the roof line was highest, was small enough to make Simon feel like a giant.

  No one was in the day nursery, though a lamp burned near the door. Hearing the soft murmur of a lullaby from the night nursery, Simon tiptoed across to peek in. Olivia was sitting on the edge of a cot, while Nurse rocked by the fireplace as she darned a sock. He wondered if she managed the work purely by feel, since the only light in the room, apart from the glow of the coals, came from a dim lamp on the table beside her.

  Olivia turned her head as he came in, looking startled. “I didn’t expect to see you anywhere near a nursery, Your Grace.” Her voice was low and soft, brushing over his skin like the warm tickle of gentle fingers, and he wondered how it would feel to hear her say his name. Then he noticed she was gently and rhythmically stroking her child’s back, and envy ran through him. To have her touch him like that…

  Though perhaps his back wouldn’t be his first choice of locations.

  He realized she was waiting for an answer. “I always liked this wing.”

  “I suspect you feel more secure here, since this is the last place the bridesmaids would be likely to look for you.”

  “That’s true,” Simon admitted. “Still, a good host makes a habit of greeting all his guests, so naturally I came to check on Miss Charlotte.”

  “She was overexcited and enamored of the hobbyhorse. I believe she would have much preferred continuing to explore—the nursery alone is as large as our entire cottage.”

  “The third duke and his duchess were a prolific pair, so when he built Halstead, he designed the nursery to accommodate a crowd.”

  “How long ago?”

  “A century, give or take. We have cousins all over England because of him.”

  “Charlotte will be quite above herself with all this space at her command and a full staff to wait on her. I’m sure when we go home in a few days she will find the cottage very dull in comparison.”

  “And what about you, Olivia? Will you find the cottage dull?”

  “Of course. Halstead is nothing if not exciting.”

  And me? Simon wanted to ask. Will you miss me?

  She tucked the blanket more closely around the child. “She’s safely asleep now, I think. I’ll tell her tomorrow she was honored by the duke himself coming to visit.” Olivia eased herself from the cot and stood up.

  “Then if your duties here are complete, may I escort you downstairs?” Damnation, what was wrong with him? His voice had cracked like a schoolboy’s.

  She gave a long sigh. Speckles of apprehension danced through him. Surely she didn’t intend to refuse him, did she?

  She reached for her reticule, lying on the table next to Nurse’s chair, and led the way out to the corridor. She stopped there and opened her bag. “First, I have something I wish to give you.”

  The dim light that filtered out from the nursery lamps caught on the object in her hand, and for an instant it flared brilliant blue.

  Simon looked down at his sapphire stickpin, lying against the smooth, creamy skin of her palm, and felt his mouth go dry with dread. She was returning his gift.

  But why?

  Thirteen

  Penelope bore Etta’s bedtime fussing with all the grace she could muster, but finally even the maid had to admit she could do nothing more to add to her lady’s allure. Gathering up the clothing that needed laundering, Etta pulled the door of the blue bedroom shut behind her, leaving Penelope alone.

  She sat up in the big bed with pillows propped behind her and candles burning on either side, wondering whether the earl would come to her or if he would find some other place to spend the night.

  Her brazen challenge had seemed such a good idea when she had tossed it out in the drawing room. She had even managed to eat a few bites of her dinner, though perhaps only because she’d been seated at the far end of the table from her husband.

  But now Penelope was alone in the shadows, waiting to see whether he would take up the gauntlet.

  Asking Olivia Reyne for advice had been one of the most difficult things Penelope had ever done, but at least now she knew what had happened this afternoon and what had gone wrong. Her physical needs had been met, but her husband’s had not. Instead of satisfying himself by spilling his seed, he had withdrawn from her… and that, from what Lady Reyne had implied, was so unusual where husbands were concerned as to be unheard of.

  The door opened and the earl came in. Penelope sat up a little straighter.

  His gaze flicked across her as though she was just another pillow. “Is there a dressing room?”

  She pointed toward a door half-hidden in the paneling. “It’s very small.”

  The earl pulled off his coat and untied his neckcloth. “I assume there is a cot I can use.”

  “No. The duchess must have needed it elsewhere.”

  He paused in midmotion. “The duchess? Or you? You’ve managed everything else to your own taste. I must assume you capable of arranging that, too.”

  He didn’t sound angry or bitter, just resigned.

  Suddenly the challenge she had flung down before him with such high hope and confidence seemed merely pathetic.

  “Put out your candle,” the earl said.

  “Why? I’ve seen…” Your very intriguing body—all of it—before. Penelope stopped herself. Perhaps he meant this time he would prefer the dark.

  Obediently, she wet her fingertips and pinched out the wick. Only the candle on th
e far side of the bed still burned, and as the earl undressed, his shadow reeled around the room, making Penelope feel dizzy.

  Or perhaps it was simple anticipation.

  She toyed with the edge of the linen sheet, trying not to watch as he disrobed. But she couldn’t help but feast her eyes on him as the candlelight kissed his skin, making the hair on his chest gleam gold.

  He didn’t bother with a nightshirt, and Penelope suddenly felt very overdressed in her fussy satin and lace gown.

  He pushed back the coverlet and sat on the edge of the mattress for a moment, his back to her, as if bracing himself. Then he pinched out the candle’s wick.

  In the sudden darkness, the rasp of linen sounded loud and harsh against his skin as he slid into the bed. Penelope scooted down from her pillows to lie flat, waiting for him to turn to her, to reach for her.

  He didn’t.

  She lay rigid in the big bed and listened to him breathe. Gradually, as her eyes became accustomed to nothing but firelight, she could see the room nearly as well as she had when the candles were lit.

  Finally, she said, “Is the fire too much?”

  For a moment she thought he was going to pretend he was asleep. As though she could be convinced he had drifted off. “Too much what?”

  “Is there too much light to let you pretend I am someone else? If you need the room to be darker—”

  The earl swore. She’d never before heard some of the words he used—but she had no trouble understanding the gist, and she felt as if her stomach was turning miserable flips. What had she done? How had such a simple plan gone so badly awry?

  “I am sorry, sir.” Penelope’s voice was little more than a whisper.

  The earl sat up, punching at his pillow. “I should think you would be. You chose this course. One time, you said, and I agreed. Now this. What in hell did you think you were doing, making a public farce of this?”

  She couldn’t exactly argue. But she’d said she was sorry, and now Penelope was feeling so mulish she couldn’t back down. “Yes, you agreed—and then you didn’t do as you promised!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I asked to be shown how it feels to be a wife. This afternoon hardly addressed the question.”

  “I’m not surprised you were shocked by the process, ma’am.”

  “No, I mean a husband would have attempted to give his wife a child!”

  He went still, as though he’d frozen in place.

  “I may have been a virgin this afternoon, but I know more than you think I do. That wasn’t how a man treats his wife. That was how a man acts with his mistress when he doesn’t want to be saddled with a bastard child!”

  As soon as the words were out, Penelope knew she had gone too far.

  He moved so suddenly she didn’t have even an instant to contemplate his intentions before his hands were on her. “You’re wrong. A mistress is an entirely different thing.” He seized her nightgown with both hands. The sound of satin and lace ripping echoed through the room. Three quick wrenches laid the gown open from neckline to hem, exposing her completely. “This is how a man treats his mistress.”

  He captured both her wrists and dragged them above her head, holding her wrists with one hand while he plundered her body with the other. His fingertips seemed to be everywhere, leaving a trail of flame wherever he touched—the line of her throat, the hollow under her collarbone, her painfully aroused nipples, her waist, her hip, her thigh. He nudged her legs apart enough to plunge one finger inside her, and Penelope felt a surge of slickness as she welcomed him. He released her wrists and slid down her body, his tongue greedily claiming every spot his fingertips had touched, sliding across her belly, dipping into the small indentation of her navel, and moving on down…

  Shocked, she clamped her legs together.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “We’ll have none of that. Not from a mistress.” He moved over her, kneeling between her thighs. With one hand on each of her knees, he spread her legs wide. For a long moment he only looked. She felt the brush of cool air moving across the damp heat of her most private parts and was embarrassed to admit she found even the small touch stimulating. Or was the sudden rush of wetness between her legs purely because of the way he was looking at her?

  He bent his head and flicked his tongue against her, and Penelope arched off the bed. As if in retaliation, he pushed her knees wider yet and settled down between her legs, licking and sucking and lapping at her. He found the sensitive nub of her clitoris and blew gently on it, then casually rubbed his thumb across it, setting off an earthquake deep inside her.

  Penelope moaned. He was deliberately driving her mad, she knew, and there was nothing she could do but let him watch while she came apart under his relentless stroking.

  She was still shaking from her orgasm when he released her knees, positioned himself over her, and plunged inside with one long deep thrust. She cried out in surprise and he paused, holding himself still.

  He intended to withdraw again—she could sense it. But this time, she swore, he would not be able to pull away. Guided by a primitive instinct she did not understand, she wrapped her legs around him and locked her ankles together, holding him inside her.

  “You learn very quickly, mistress,” he muttered and began to make quick thrusts, moving only an inch or two, stroking her sensitized flesh.

  But the rest of her was just as hungry for his touch. “More,” she whimpered.

  He stopped moving altogether. “Then you have to let go.”

  If he withdrew again without finishing, Penelope thought, she would die right there in his arms. But she couldn’t stand this either, to have him inside her but quiescent. Reluctantly, she relaxed her legs.

  Instantly, he pulled almost all the way out of her. For a long moment he stayed poised there, with only the very head of his penis teasing inside her. Penelope felt betrayed, wounded—but then he delved again, sheathing himself completely. She clenched her muscles tightly around him, stroking him in return.

  He said something under his breath—she thought it might have been “Vixen”—and then she was past thinking or hearing. All she could do was feel as his thrusts, long and deep and hard, took her over the brink. But even as she lost herself in utter fulfillment, she felt a burst of heat and joy as he cried out and spilled his seed deep inside her body.

  ***

  When Kate and Olivia reached the nursery, Charlotte was wearing her nightgown but sitting up in her cot, fighting sleep and arguing madly to be allowed to continue exploring. “There’s a real horse!” she told Kate.

  “It’s a hobbyhorse,” Nurse said. “Quite an elaborate one, too, compared to her stick creation. The mane and tail are made of real horsehair.”

  “I’ll show you, Miss Kate,” Charlotte offered. She squirmed off the cot before Olivia caught her by the back of her nightgown.

  Kate decided to remove one potential distraction. “Tomorrow, my dear, I will come and admire the horse. For now, I must go back downstairs to see the duchess, and it’s time for you to go to sleep so you’re not too tired tomorrow to ride.”

  “I would like to see the duchess, too,” Charlotte said hopefully.

  “I think I’d better stay here till she’s settled,” Olivia said.

  Kate met the duchess on the first landing. She hadn’t realize it was so late, but if the duchess was retiring to her room, the company would soon scatter; once the highest-ranking lady had excused herself, the rest of the ladies were free to do the same. The gentlemen would likely return to their own pursuits for an hour or two before retiring, but Kate’s duties would be finished for the day. “Is there anything else you would like me to do this evening, ma’am?” she asked.

  A couple of minutes later, with the duchess’s instructions still echoing in her ears, Kate paused on the threshold of the drawing room. At a table in the far corner, Andrew Carlisle, the colonel, and a couple of the bridesmaids’ mothers were playing whist. Kate hoped the stakes were low—for the co
lonel’s sake, of course, she told herself.

  Standing by the pianoforte, one of the newly arrived gentlemen turned pages for the lone bridesmaid who displayed actual musical talent. He looked moonstruck; Kate wondered if he was really impressed or was simply an excellent actor.

  On the long couch, Lady Stone had taken up Olivia’s seat beside Penny and seemed to be quizzing her. The hairs at the nape of Kate’s neck stood up. If Lady Stone had overheard the conversation about seduction, or if she had gotten a better look than Kate had at the gold trinket Olivia had dropped, or if she was trying to dun Penny to pay the bet Lady Stone had lost…

  As she headed in their direction, the vicar intercepted her. “Miss Blakely, if I might have a word.”

  Kate managed a smile. “Of course, sir. The duchess requested me to discuss a few last arrangements for Lady Daphne’s wedding with you. If you have no objections to displaying flowers on the altar for the ceremony, the gardeners will send over the best blooms Halstead can produce.”

  “Yes, yes. Whatever Her Grace wishes.” He took her arm and drew her off toward a corner. “We’ve had scarcely a moment alone. Even at dinner, that officious Mr. Carlisle was continually making his presence felt, so I could not express my feelings.”

  Kate pretended not to hear. “If Her Grace’s notion is satisfactory to you, sir, then I will undertake to arrange the flowers myself on the afternoon before the wedding.”

  “I shall look forward to the occasion. Such a feminine pursuit, flower arranging! I will accept no other engagements. What a charming idea you have had, for us to meet in the church to become better acquainted since the church has brought us together. My dear Miss Blakely, I cannot tell you how delighted I am at the prospect.”

  He sounded as if he hoped she was plotting to drag him into the vestry and ravish him. “The duchess felt I would be the best person to carry out her wishes, since I know where the vases are kept in the church and how the altar is decorated to best advantage.”

  “Of course.” He smiled broadly. “When a lady arranges matters to suit herself, she should never admit it—and a gentleman must never call attention to the fact she has done so. My apologies, I am sure. I am properly set down, but how gently you did it. I am impressed with your tact, surely the best of all traits for the wife of a vicar, my dear.”