by Mary Balogh
Soon, she told both them and herself silently. Soon she would be back with them. All would be as it used to be or as they had imagined it to be until Papa had died and they had realized the impoverishment of their situation. They would never be poor again or unsafe—or separated.
Yes, she had done the right thing. How could she have refused such a totally unexpected and irresistible offer? It had been like a gift from heaven. How else could she possibly think of it? She closed her mind to the possibility that it might be just the opposite, especially when one considered the satanic appearance and the flat eyes of the Marquess of Staunton.
Of course she had done the right thing. It was too late now anyway to give in to doubts.
Of course she had done the right thing.
BY MIDNIGHT THE rain appeared to have stopped. The Marquess of Staunton stood in the open doorway of the inn taproom, one shoulder propped against the doorpost, gazing out across the cobbled yard and shivering slightly in the chilly air. But it was, of course, far too muddy and far too late to move on tonight.
He was the last of both the taproom’s patrons and the inn’s guests to linger downstairs. Behind him the innkeeper tidied up for the night with deliberately audible movements. He was clearly hinting that his last remaining customer should consider taking himself off to bed.
“The sun will be shining in the morning, m’lord,” he said.
“Mmm, yes,” the marquess agreed. They would have sunshine for their arrival at Enfield Park. How delightful! His lips tightened into a thin line. He should, he thought altogether too belatedly, have merely ignored his father’s summons. He should have made no answer at all to it. Better yet, he should have answered curtly and courteously to the effect that he was too busy with his own affairs to avail himself of his grace’s kind hospitality. What concern of his was it that the duke was ailing? Had his father taken any notice of him when he had broken his leg and very nearly his neck too during that curricle race to Brighton six years ago? None whatsoever.
All ties between him and his father had been severed for eight years. He was not bound to Withingsby even by financial ties. He was independently wealthy. He had been under no obligation to pay any attention to that letter when it had come. He wondered why he had felt somehow obligated, somehow caught up in the past again as if it had never been laid properly to rest. As if the bonds had not been fully severed.
He should have ignored the letter. He should have found some way of renouncing his birthright. Let William be duke after their father. Let Claudia be duchess. His lip curled at the thought. What an irony there would be in that. Claudia as the Duchess of Withingsby.
Claudia …
The innkeeper was clearing his throat. “Can I get you anything else tonight, m’lord?” he asked.
“No.” The marquess straightened up, stepped back inside the room, and closed the door. “I am for bed. Good night.” He turned toward the stairs.
Consummating his marriage had been no part of his plan. What possible pleasure could be derived, after all, from bedding an innocent brown mouse? From dealing with skittishness and pain and tears? And blood. Besides, he had not married for pleasure.
He still had no intention of consummating the marriage. But the sleeping arrangements the rain had forced upon him in this sad apology of an inn were a considerable annoyance to him. For one thing, he was a restless sleeper and did not like sharing a bed. He only ever shared one for sexual activity, never for sleep. For another thing the very idea of conducting that most private of all activities—sleeping—in anyone else’s company offended his notions of privacy.
Tonight more than ever he felt the need for privacy. Instead of which, he was doomed to spending what remained of the night, not only in the same room as his bride, but in the same bed.
There was enough light from a lantern hung over the stable door in the yard below to allow him to undress in their room without the aid of a candle and to slide beneath the covers of the bed on the side closest to the door. She was lying quietly asleep on the far side of the bed.
His wife! He found himself wondering if she had any family. Not only had no one come to the church with her, but no one had come rushing out of her lodgings when his carriage had stopped for her trunk. Did she have no one at all of her own? No family? No friends? Well, soon enough she would have any number of the latter, he thought cynically. It was very easy to find friends when one was in possession of six thousand pounds a year. And was it possible that that small trunk held all she possessed in the world? Where were the rest of her belongings? Was it really possible to live with so few?
But he was not curious about her. He did not want to know anything about her other than what he knew already. Most certainly he did not wish to pity her. She was not in any way pitiable—he had ensured that yesterday in the contract they had both signed and this morning in the marriage service. He would quell all curiosity. She would serve a purpose in his life and then she would be well rewarded. He always rewarded well the women who were of service to him. This one was not performing the usual service, of course, but she would be adequately compensated for her time nevertheless. He need feel no other sense of responsibility toward her.
He addressed himself determinedly to sleep.
4
THE MARQUESS OF STAUNTON FOUND THAT SLEEP was eluding him. Totally. And he became aware of something gradually—two things, actually. He could feel the warmth of her along his right side, although they did not touch. He could also feel the stillness and quietness of her—she was far too still and far too quiet to be sleeping. But then it seemed reasonable to suppose that sleeping would be quite as difficult for her as it was for him.
“You should be asleep,” he told her. “Tomorrow will be a busy day.” He felt an unreasonable annoyance with her for being awake, for intruding even further into his privacy than her mere physical presence already made inevitable.
“I have counted all the sheep in England,” she said.
He pursed his lips.
“I had just started on those of Wales when you spoke,” she said. “Now I shall have to begin all over again.”
He had expected a meek little “Yes, sir.” He was reminded somehow of her eyes, which he had found himself unaccountably avoiding during dinner, when she had sat directly opposite him at their table. He found her eyes threatening, though he would have been hard-pressed to explain exactly what he meant by that if he had been called upon to do so or to explain why his mind had chosen that particular word to describe their effect on him. Now her words suggested a certain sense of humor. He did not want her to have a sense of humor—or those eyes. He wanted her to be nondescript, devoid of character or personality.
“And this is the lumpiest bed it has ever been my discomfort to lie upon,” she said.
“My apologies,” he said curtly. “This was not my choice of accommodation for the night.”
She was silent. But not to be ignored. He was aware of her as a wakeful human presence in his room, in his bed. He turned restlessly onto his side, facing her. She did not have her hair decently confined beneath a cap, he could see, his eyes having accustomed themselves to the dimness of the room. It was spread all over her pillow. It looked long and slightly wavy. It looked rather attractive. Again he felt annoyed. He had conceded the fact that she had fine eyes. That was entirely enough beauty for his bride to possess. He had chosen her partly for her plain appearance.
What did innocence feel like? he wondered irritably. It was one thing—perhaps the only thing—that was outside his sexual experience. She was lying on her back with her eyes closed. But she turned her head on the pillow even as he watched her and opened her eyes. He could smell her hair. It smelled of soap. He had never thought of the smell of soap as being erotic. And neither was it. He frowned.
“One thousand three hundred and sixty-four,” she said after the silence had stretched rather uncomfortably. Her voice sounded strained. Humor, he thought with a flash of insight, was her manner o
f self-defense. She was in bed with a man for the first time ever, after all. It must be a somewhat alarming feeling for her.
“There is another way,” he said and listened in some alarm to the echo of words he had uttered without any forethought. “Of inducing slumber, I mean.”
“Pretending that one may sleep all day tomorrow if one wishes?” she said altogether too quickly. “It does work sometimes. I shall try it.”
He raised himself on one elbow and propped the side of his head on his hand. “You are my wife,” he said, realizing that he was getting into deep waters when he had intended not even to get his feet wet.
“Yes.” Her conversation had finally been reduced to monosyllables. Her eyes were wide, he could see, but in the darkness they did less damage than when their color was clearly visible.
“I have no intention of asserting my conjugal rights by force,” he said. “However, if sheep have not achieved their purpose and the bed has failed to lull you, I am willing to offer my services.” He had bent his head closer to hers. Was he mad? But there was no way of retreating now unless she said no. He willed her to say no.
“Oh,” was all she said. But the breathlessness of the word assured him that she understood very well.
“If you wish to try it,” he said. He was surprised and not a little alarmed to find that his body had already rebelled against his will and hardened into arousal. Yet he did not even consider her desirable. “If you do not, we will address ourselves to sleep again and perhaps try the greater tedium of counting sheep’s legs.”
She stared back into his eyes only inches from her own. He could see that he had not left her with any monosyllabic answer to give. She was silent. But there was no withdrawing from the question now. And now his body was willing her to say yes.
“Do you wish to try it?” he asked her.
“Yes,” she said in a whisper.
He would not have been surprised by a refusal. She had been an impoverished gentlewoman just yesterday, forced to earn her living as a governess, forced to suffer any insult or indignity her employers cared to subject her to—the last ones had accused her of lying over something. Today she had achieved the respectability of marriage with the prospect of a more than comfortable settlement for life after a mere few weeks spent in company with him. She might very easily have avoided the one aspect of marriage that he understood was generally distasteful to respectable women. He did not imagine that his bride was either a sensual or a passionate woman. Quite the opposite. But he had given her a clear choice—he wondered how many men gave such a choice to their brides on their wedding night—and she had whispered yes.
Well, then. So be it.
SHE EXPECTED HIM to kiss her. His mouth was only inches from her own. She could smell the brandy he had been drinking. If he had kissed her, she could have closed her eyes and concentrated on the sensation created by his mouth against her own—she had found his kiss at church quite shockingly intimate even though his lips had not quite touched her own. If he had kissed her, she might have hidden behind her closed eyes and her feelings while the other thing happened.
She did not understand why she had said yes, except that she was weary of trying to sleep and failing to do so, and she had been strangely disturbed by the warmth of him on the bed beside her, and she knew that this was probably her one and only chance in life to experience the deepest intimacy of all. And because the mere smell of brandy was intoxicating her.
He did not kiss her. Or move his head away. He continued to half lean over her and look into her eyes. His own appeared quite black. His hair was tousled. The hand that was not propping up his head touched her. She felt immediately as if she had been touched by a flaming torch even though it was only her shoulder he touched at first. His hand moved firmly downward to her breast, circled beneath it, lifted it. She thought she might well find it impossible to draw the next breath of air into her lungs. She felt horribly embarrassed. Her breasts were rather large—too large, she always thought.
And then her nipple was imprisoned between his thumb and the base of his forefinger and he squeezed them together almost as if he was unaware that it was there, causing her excruciating pain, though it was not like any other pain she had ever experienced. This was undoubtedly pain, but it shot off upward into her throat and across to her other breast and downward into her belly and along her inner thighs so that she ached and yearned all over. Her breath shuddered and jerked out of her, quite audibly.
She was alarmed. She wished she had said no. Was it too late now? But she was curious too. She wished he would kiss her. Was this not supposed to be romantic? Was it not supposed to be—love? She realized the absurdity of that youthful assumption even as she thought it. This was not love. But it was certainly—exciting. It was not supposed to be exciting. It was supposed to be love—a sweet and gentle thing. Somehow the buttons of her nightgown had come undone and he was repeating his actions on her other breast—her naked breast.
This time pain had her gasping for air.
But his hand had moved on downward beneath the low opening of her nightgown—and on down to the source of the ache the pain had created. She had parted her legs slightly and tilted her hips to allow his hand easier access before her brain understood just where his hand was and exactly what it was doing there. She felt engulfed by embarrassment and by unfamiliar and uncontrollable achings and yearnings. His fingers were parting, probing, stroking. She could hear sounds of wetness. She would have died of embarrassment, she was sure, if such an act had been within the power of her will.
She opened her eyes suddenly. He was still propped on one elbow. He was still looking down at her. He took his hand away and lifted her nightgown—all the way to her waist. Well, this part she knew about, she thought. She knew what to expect. She drew a deep breath and held it. She was not sorry she had said yes. He was a stranger and she did not believe she could ever like him—partly because she did not believe she could ever know him—but he was her husband, and he was undeniably attractive. On the whole she was glad there was to be this experience in her life—just this one time.
“Let it out,” he told her. “You cannot possibly hold it long enough. Breathe normally.”
It was easy enough for him to say that, she thought as he moved over her and a considerable portion of his weight settled on top of her. She could feel his hands pushing beneath her, spreading over her buttocks, holding them firm. Her inner thighs were against the outside of his legs, pushed wide. He seemed to be all hard, unyielding muscle. She felt horribly defenseless. But he had given her the choice, and she had said yes. She would say it again if the choice were given her again. Curiosity and fear and excitement were a heady blend, she found.
At first it was enormously frightening. Apart from the conviction that there could not possibly be room, either in breadth or in depth, there was all the fear of being impaled, destroyed while she was pressed wide and was helpless to defend herself. Then there was the terrified certainty that indeed there was not enough room and that she was about to tear into unbearable pain. Then he was deep, deep inside and holding hard and still there, and she knew with startled surprise that there was after all room and that she would survive—and that it felt unfamiliar and exciting and really rather good.
But she had been right to guess that knowing and experiencing were two quite different things. She could never have imagined the utter carnality of the sensation.
And then she discovered—during several minutes of shocked amazement—that in fact she had not known at all. Only about penetration. She had had no inkling of the fact that penetration was only the beginning. He pumped in and out of her with hard, smooth strokes until the ache his hands on her breasts had already created became raw pain—pain that was not really pain but for which there was no other more suitable word in her vocabulary. And certainly it was beyond bearing and growing more so with every inward stroke.
“Oh,” she said suddenly, alarmed and amazed as she pressed her hands t
o his buttocks in an attempt to hold him still and deep and as inner muscles she had still not consciously discovered clenched convulsively. “Oh.”
He answered her mute appeal instantly. He pressed hard into her tightness and held there. “My God,” he murmured against the side of her head. “My God!”
Something that she thought might well be death beckoned and she followed without a struggle. Whatever it was closed darkly about her and felt wonderful beyond belief. Nothingness. Total, blissful nothingness.
She was half aware of his moving again, faster and harder than before. She was half aware of a flood of heat deep inside as he sighed and held still again and relaxed his full weight down onto her. Death was not after all to be feared, she thought foolishly and very fuzzily. Death was the fulfillment of all that was most desirable.
She slept. She grumbled only very halfheartedly when the wonderful heat and weight that bore her down into the mattress was lifted away from her and far lighter blankets covered her instead. Yes, she thought with the last thread of consciousness, there was a method vastly superior to counting sheep.
And love was not always sweet and gentle. And love was not always love.
THE ROAD HAD dried sufficiently by the following morning to make travel possible. And the landlord at the inn where they had stayed the night had proved quite correct in his prediction. The sun shone from a sky that was dotted prettily but sparsely with fluffy white clouds. Fields and hedgerows looked washed clean in the morning air.
It was the perfect day for a homecoming.
The Marquess of Staunton gazed moodily and sightlessly out through the window on his side of the carriage. Damn and blast, he was thinking, verbalizing the words in his head with silent venom.