by Zoë Archer
At the first brush of his mouth against hers, she jolted. Their noses bumped, hard. He pulled back.
Opening her eyes, she covered her mouth with her hands. “I’m so sorry.”
He cradled his nose for a moment. “No damage done. Here.” She braced herself for another attempt at a kiss. Instead, he ran his warm, long fingers across her cheek, then down her neck. He gazed at her with perplexed interest. His breath came faster, and a flush darkened his skin.
At his touch, shivers of sensation ran over her skin and echoed deep within her. It felt wondrous. It felt awful. She wanted this, wanted him, yet she had no idea who he truly was, and it was all so strange, so terribly strange.
His gaze intent, he moved closer to her. He angled his body so that he faced her, and he filled her vision, every part of it, with the fire burning behind him.
This must be what rabbits feel when the hawk’s shadow blocks the sun.
He braced one hand beside her thigh. His nearness overwhelmed her. With his other hand, he slid her hair over her shoulder, revealing the shape of her breast beneath the delicate nightgown. Her nipple made a pale point under the silk.
Leo stared at her breast, rapt as a scholar, and she could hardly catch her breath. No man had ever looked at her in this state of undress. Focus and desire sharpened Leo’s face, and she felt pierced by it, by him, simply looking at her. At that moment nothing existed but the confines of the bed, and the truth that soon their bodies would be joined as intimately as possible.
Slowly, as if tracing a shadow, his hand moved from her shoulder. Down. The brush of his fingertips over her collarbone, the very top of her chest, and then lower. She bit back a gasp as his large, warm hand cupped her breast.
A rough sound came from deep within him, and an answering thrill shivered through her. His eyes were hot and sharp. When his thumb moved back and forth across her nipple, he watched the tightening bead with the intensity of a man searching for answers.
The rasp of silk and his thumb against her was exquisite, a gathering of terrifying sensation. She had learned, years ago, how to touch all the places on herself that gave pleasure, but it was so different having someone else touch her, a frightening drop into a dimly lit chasm.
“Anne,” he rumbled. He lowered his head.
Another kiss. Could she do this properly? She closed her eyes.
His lips met hers, and she was grateful that she didn’t jolt again. Instead, she kept herself still, willing herself to stop her mind, to simply let this happen. His lips were warm and firm, and they lightly moved back and forth over hers, coaxing response. The very tip of his tongue stroked against her mouth just as he grew bolder with his hand on her breast, his touch there deepening.
She was aware of everything: his mouth on hers, his harsh breath against her lips, the heat and size of his hand caressing her breast. Her own fear mingled with arousal in an alchemy she could not understand. It felt wondrous and odd and fearsome. She could not lift her hands from the counterpane. They seemed pinned like butterflies, her fingers spread, pushing down onto the bed. Part of her wanted to lift her hands and touch him, feel his sleek, hard body underneath the banyan. Part of her wanted to keep her hands flat, as if touching him were the final word spoken in an incantation that released an unknown magic.
The bed tilted as his long body stretched alongside hers. With one hand, he wove his fingers into her hair, cradling her head, and the hand that held her breast moved down with intent. The counterpane blocked its progress, and he shoved impatiently at the blanket until he found the curve of her waist. She gasped against his lips to feel the heat and strength of his hand on her. With her lips parted, he dipped his tongue into her mouth. Tastes flooded her—tobacco, wine, the flavor of a healthy male.
Oh, God, she felt him against her thigh. The hard thickness of his arousal. It was real, he was real, and a man, and she felt a rising need building within her, and she had never experienced such fear in her life, for Leo was different from her in every way. In her imaginings of this moment, she had seen herself as serenely acquiescent, almost detached. Instead, she shivered and wanted and was afraid.
His hand continued on its progress, stroking slowly from her waist to her hip. The lower his hand moved, the greater her shaking became, until she trembled so strongly that the vibrations from her body traveled into his hand and up his arm. Mortification burned her, for she knew he felt her fear. Her own breathing was a ragged sound, tattered as a scrap of lace in a gale, and tears gathered in her eyes.
Then ... His touch disappeared. He angled away from her. For several moments, nothing happened. Anne waited and waited, until she felt ready to shatter. Finally, she opened her eyes.
He lay on his back, his breath coming in hard, quick exhalations. His hands lay on his thighs. As her gaze moved lower, she saw the banyan tented over his erection, and she quickly brought her gaze back up to his face.
A frown formed a deep line between his brows. The tightness in his jaw revealed an inner struggle.
Was he angry? With her? Why had he stopped? Too uncertain, Anne could say nothing. She felt awkward and gauche, lying beside him, her hands still splayed on the counterpane as she balanced precariously, midway between desire and terror.
At last, he broke the silence. “My parents married for love.”
Of all the things for him to say, this was least expected. She struggled to align her thoughts, for they’d scattered in every direction like pins, and her body only now began to calm in its frantic trembling.
It took a moment for her to find her voice. “I didn’t know.”
Still staring at the canopy, he shook his head. “No reason why you would. She was a dairymaid, and she flirted with him when she passed the saddlery every day. He said she spilled so much milk from her pails—all her pretty curtsies—that every cat in the neighborhood sat on his roof. The cattery, he called his shop.”
It seemed sweet and charming, far more so than the ways in which brides were contracted for amongst the gentry, with calculated discussions of marriage portions and family connections.
“There’s an advantage to being part of the lower orders.” He turned his head and gave her a wry smile that did not fully warm his eyes. “Some apprentices marry their masters’ daughters, but for the most part, we marry on the basis of what our hearts tell us. We have the privilege of time. Of nurturing the seedling of affection into something lush and verdant.”
“That sounds ... lovely.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, and a strange ache set up in her heart.
“It is. Or,” he amended, “it would be. I am not a saddle maker and you are not a dairymaid.”
“An impoverished baron’s daughter and a self-made man.” And they were already married.
Leo sighed, ran a hand over his jaw, then stood. The thick upright shape of his erection had begun to diminish. He walked to the clothespress and removed a long nightshirt. He eyed the garment with reluctance, then took it with him into the closet. A moment later, he emerged from the closet wearing the nightshirt, his banyan draped over his arm. The nightshirt was thinner than the banyan, and she watched the long, solid shapes of his limbs as they moved beneath the fabric. She saw the mass and shape of his manhood—that most fascinating and terrifying part of him—though his arousal had faded.
Slowly, he moved through the chamber, dousing the candles. She could not stop herself from staring at the taut forms of his buttocks as he crouched before the fire to bank the flames. When shadows shrouded the room, he padded over to the bed.
Anne quickly slid over when he got into bed. He filled it with his large, solid body, and she held herself rigid, trying not to roll toward him. She wanted to feel his body beside hers again, yet dreaded it, too. When he snuffed the bedside candle, the chamber went almost entirely dark, save for the lambent glow of the fire.
Perhaps they were going to take up where they’d left off a few moments ago. She wondered if she was supposed to do something. Disrobe, perhaps? Y
et when she reached for the hem of her nightgown, his hand stopped her.
“Go to sleep, Anne.” His voice was gruff in the darkness.
Did that mean they weren’t going to ... “I have displeased you.”
“No. You please me fine.” He let out a sound partway between a sigh and a growl. “But I’ve decided I can’t behave as the gentry does, not when it comes to marriage. We barely know each other, and if I were to take your maidenhead on only truly a few hours’ worth of acquaintance, then that makes me as cold and heartless as them.”
She was gentry, but was far too stunned by his declaration to take umbrage. “Are we to have a chaste marriage?”
His laugh was rueful. “God, no. But I think it’s for the best if we wait a little. Get to know each other more.”
“Oh.” Relief poured through her. Relief and ... disappointment. Mainly, however, she felt a great burden lift.
He settled deeper under the covers, and it felt very odd, sharing a bed with a man—the size of him, his weight upon the mattress. Several inches separated their bodies, but she felt his ambient heat. Caught the traces of his skin’s own scent.
If this weren’t so strange, she might enjoy sleeping beside him. Unless ... he didn’t want to share a bed at all. She began to slide out from beneath the bedclothes, but his hand stopped her once more.
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
“To my bedchamber.”
“This is your bedchamber.”
Even in the darkness, she blinked at him. “I don’t have my own bedroom?” Her parents slept apart. If her circle of friends was to be believed, all husbands and wives did.
“The idea that a husband and wife should sleep apart is ridiculous,” he rumbled. “That’s for aristos, not peasants like me.” He tugged on her wrist, and she had no choice but to edge back beneath the covers. “Whatever our arrangement for now, know this, Anne. You are my wife. I am your husband. We will always share a bed.”
Simple words, yet her heartbeat raced when she heard them. “As you like.”
He released his grip on her, and exhaled. “Don’t like it at all. Not now. But I will ... at some point. Now sleep.”
He continued to baffle her. Yet he was her husband, and according to the law and to the Church, that made him her master. “Good night, Leo.”
“Good night, Anne.”
He rolled over heavily. Within a few minutes, his breathing slowed and deepened. He slept.
Leaving her alone and awake, staring into the dark.
It didn’t surprise Anne to wake up alone. She had slept alone her whole life, and to stretch in bed and find the space beside her empty was no different than any other morning. Except, as she stretched, her arms wide, her fingers did not meet the edge of the bed. And the sheets smelled of tobacco and spice, not lavender.
This was not her bed. She suddenly remembered: she was married now. Married, but a virgin. Leo had touched her, and it had been both wonderful and terrible, until fear had overtaken her with humiliating ferocity. He’d been kind, and stopped. They had then spent the whole of the night together, chaste as schoolfellows. Now he was gone.
Her eyes opened to images of menacing flowers and vines tipped with thorns. The bed hangings. She pushed the fabric back to reveal the room. Someone had come in during the early hours to tend the fire, but now Anne was by herself. The drawn curtains kept the chamber dark, and it seemed that shadows congealed in the corners, trying to take shape.
She shook her head at her foolishness. Merely an adjustment to life in a new house.
The gilt bronze clock on the mantel showed the time to be well after nine. Not an unusual time for her to awaken, but perhaps Leo liked to rise earlier. He probably waited for her to join him for breakfast downstairs. Though their marriage had begun in a rather ... unconventional manner, she did not want him thinking her indolent and spoiled. He was a man of business, of industry. As his wife, she should be just as industrious.
Anne slid out of bed. As she padded toward the closet to make use of the close stool, the chill of the floor seeped into her feet and up her legs. Baffling, that. The fire should have taken the cold from the room.
After tending to her needs and washing up, she emerged from the closet and found the curtains pulled back and an apron-wearing girl waiting for her.
“Good morning, madam.” The girl bobbed a curtsy. She couldn’t have been more than a year younger than Anne. “I’m Meg, your maid.”
Anne had always shared a maid with her mother, as the family could not afford the expense of two, so to have one all to herself seemed a tremendous luxury. It seemed odd, though, that Meg had appeared without being summoned. Perhaps things ran differently in a household that never went into arrears and paid their servants on time.
“Has my clothing been unpacked?” Nearly all of her garments had come straight from the mantua maker, but some were hers from before.
“Yes, madam. Is there a particular gown you want?”
Anne realized she had no idea what constituted her new trousseau. Everything had been purchased so quickly, with hardly any consultation on her part. Still, she didn’t fancy the idea of the servants knowing that she’d come to their master nearly penniless.
“I trust you, Meg,” she said.
The girl brightened and hastened to the other clothespress. Eventually, she emerged with an open gown of peach-and-green Indian cotton, as well as all necessary undergarments. Anne resisted the impulse to peer into the clothespress to see what other gowns had been purchased for her, just as she fought the urge to admire the quality and newness of the gown Meg now helped her into.
As Meg fastened the dress, Anne looked at herself in the cheval glass and felt as though she put on another woman’s skin. The thought made her shudder, thinking that a woman’s flayed body lay somewhere, its muscles and innards exposed as the corpse cooled. She had a sudden vision of an attic chamber, perhaps in this very house, where other brides’ bodies hung.
You haven’t married Bluebeard, for heaven’s sake.
As if to counter her own fears, she said aloud, “Do hurry, Meg. I want to join my husband for breakfast.”
The maid blinked up at her. “He’s gone, madam.”
Now it was Anne’s turn to look blank. “Gone?”
“I only started working here last week, making ready for you, but the master always leaves the house by seven.”
“Where does he go?”
“To Exchange Alley, I reckon.” Meg glanced at her from beneath the frill of her mob cap, perplexed by Anne’s ignorance of her own husband.
“Of course,” Anne said, far more brightly than she felt. She pasted on a smile. “I’ll just take chocolate and rolls in here, then.”
“The master had Cook fix you a proper breakfast. Eggs, bacon, seed cakes. It’s waiting for you downstairs.”
She couldn’t refuse, not without possibly insulting the cook. Since Anne would be responsible for consulting with the cook about meals, she must be politic and make herself eat a meal she did not truly want. “Sounds delightful.”
After Meg finished her toilette, Anne quit the bedchamber. The hallway was very quiet, almost sepulchral in its stillness, barely interrupted by the sounds of servants attending to their daily tasks elsewhere in the house. If Anne had not left Meg in the bedchamber only a moment prior, she might believe herself completely alone. Maybe even the last person alive in the entire world.
Stop this ridiculous ghoulishness! She never indulged in thoughts of the macabre—she stayed clear of the hangings at Tyburn, and even went out of her way to avoid the occasional traitor’s head piked on Temple Bar.
It was simply nervousness at her unfamiliar surroundings, and trepidation as a new wife. Last night had been very tumultuous, so there might be lingering emotions. But there was truly nothing to fear. These awkward first days would soon pass.
Yet as she made her way down the stairs, that prospect seemed dim. It felt even farther away as she entered the din
ing room. Without all the guests from the day before, the chamber was an empty cavern scoured by gray morning light. All signs of the wedding celebration were gone—not even a crumb or wine stain on the carpet. Almost as if it had never happened, save for the music and laughter ringing in Anne’s remembrance like broken glass.
The large table was laid for one, and as Anne moved farther into the room, a footman hurried in from a side door to pull out her chair. She smiled her thanks and sat, and helped herself to far more food than she wanted. There was nothing she could do but force food down her throat as the footman stood in attendance. Everything tasted like pasteboard.
“Please tell Cook that the meal is delicious,” she said to the footman, who bowed. “I trust we will have more exquisite dishes for supper.”
“Suppose so,” the footman said. “Seeing as how the master don’t take no meals here, I wouldn’t know.”
“No meals at all?”
“Maybe a cold collation late at night, but he’s often out.”
“Are we to expect him today?”
The footman shrugged.
Leo’s absence at the table and in the house was a silent humiliation. Had she so little to offer her husband beyond her bloodline that he willingly left their bed to attend to business? She had believed him compassionate when he’d forestalled the consummation of their marriage. Yet now, with her alone in his house, alone in every way, she wondered if it had been kindness or merely disinterest. If the scandal rags were to be believed, Leo was accustomed to wild living, indulging in every vice. Nothing checked his desires, his impulses.
Would he consider his wife another obstacle to ignore? He had said that he wanted them to wait, to learn each other before consummating their marriage. Perhaps without the inducement of his wife’s body, there was little to interest him at home.
As she picked at the congealing remains of her breakfast, she felt a rush of blood to her cheeks. Disappointment—and anger—roiled within her. She had no expectations of marriage, yet even in her most hypothetical imaginings she had not anticipated being an afterthought to the man who claimed her hand. Clearly, however, that was how Leo saw her: a parenthesis.