The Marchioness’ Buried Secret (Historical Regency Romance)

by Ella Edon

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “It will only be a few more moments, my lady,” Blackmoor looked down at her from his horse. “There is a line of carriages, someone must be having an early season tete.”

  “Do you think it possible to arrange for a bath once we arrive?” she asked, looking down at her bodice. “I would love to wash the road off before we retire.”

  “Of… of course, my Lady.” Blackmoor coughed and became as bright red as a cherry and Emma realized that neither of them had made mention of the wedding night. Why did she have to ask for a bath? Why did she mention retiring?

  Her only excuse was the late hour and being travel weary, but if Blackmoor was indeed doing his father’s bidding would he want to claim his husbandly rights as soon as possible? Emma sighed. She wasn’t wholly uneducated in what took place between men and women in the bedroom, but she was not looking forward to it either. She had heard the servants speaking of how they endure it.

  “Lay back and think of England,” she said out loud, leaning back into the carriage seat.

  “Pardon?” Blackmoor said from outside the carriage. “Did you say something, my Lady?”

  “My apologies, my Lord,” she said, embarrassed that he had heard her. “I was simply thinking out loud about how lovely London is in the Spring.”

  Considering it was the pitch of night, Emma was sure her lie was weak, but Blackmoor merely nodded. Before long the carriage had come to a stop again, and Emma knew they had arrived at her new home.

  Blackmoor offered her a hand down from the conveyance, and then his arm as they walked up the narrow steps to the front of the house.

  The door immediately opened, and an older gentleman, not dressed in fancy livery, but rather in a stayed black waistcoat, greeted them.

  “My Lord,” he nodded, solemnly.

  “Charleston, may I introduce my bride, Lady Emma Blackmoor.” He pushed her forward and she gave the gentleman a deep curtsy realizing that her name was indeed Blackmoor now. How strange, she thought.

  “Lady Blackmoor, this is Charleston, my butler,” he said. “He will introduce you to the rest of the staff in the morning. In the meantime, Charleston, can we have a bath sent up to the bedchamber.”

  “Yes, your lordship,” the butler replied.

  Bedchamber, Emma realized Blackmoor did not differentiate between his rooms and hers.

  “Pardon, my lord,” she said. “But are we to share a bedchamber?” Was she not to have her own room in the townhouse? Was she expected to share a bed with her husband? She knew enough to know that was not often done in their circles.

  “Only for this evening,” his response was curt, and Emma thought better than to question him further. If he meant for them to share a bedchamber on their wedding night, which is exactly what it seemed he wanted, she would do her duty and be an obedient wife. She sent a silent prayer up that she would conceive a child right away as to not have to endure Blackmoor’s affections any longer than necessary.

  Instead she focused her attentions on the interior of his home. It was dark, and Emma could not help but think there was nothing feminine about the home. Every wall hanging seemed to portray a hunting scene, and every surface was trimmed in dark wood paneling.

  She was led up to the third-floor bedchamber and was not surprised to see more of the same. The carpet was plush but deep burgundy in color, and the poster bed was also done in dark silks and linens. While impeccable, to Emma’s eye the place needed a woman’s touch. Perhaps now that they were married Blackmoor would allow her to spend some of her time redecorating. She noticed their trunks had already been brought into the room and along a low, warm, red bench her night rail was laid out along with a fresh bar of soap. She picked it up and smelled the soft floral scent coming off the bar. It was a thoughtful touch that pricked at her feelings. Once again Blackmoor was being kind.

  Charleston, and another man to whom she had not yet been introduced, came into the bedchamber carrying a rather large and heavy looking copper tub. They placed the tub before the fire and three maids followed them with buckets of water. Emma could see the steam rising from the buckets and suddenly the need to sink into the warm water and soak the day off overcame all of her worries.

  “I hope you find everything to your liking, my Lady,” Blackmoor said from behind her.

  She nodded, suddenly unable to find her words.

  * * *

  Henry took his leave of Emma to allow her privacy as she bathed. She had said she would leave him some water, but he had a separate bath set up for himself in the small kitchen below stairs.

  As he sank into the lukewarm water he thought about the day’s events. He was married, and his wife was intriguing.

  This was not in my plan, he thought groaning as he sank deeper into the water, closing his eyes and letting the warm liquid wash over him. He did do his best thinking when surrounded by water, whether it a cold swim in the Drysdale pond, or a hot and deep copper tub. Something about being suspended in the quiet liquid calmed his usually rapid-fire mind. Just as he was beginning to settle into it, his breathing slowed, and his mind quiet, he was thrust violently upward.

  “What the devil…what are you doing man?” Henry sputtered wiping the water from his eyes, as he was pulled up from the bath abruptly, by a pair of strong hands.

  “My lord, I know you are not happily married, but really, drowning?” His trusted valet Cecil had been the one to disturb his bath and now stood staring down at him with an impertinent grin. Henry thought he really should do something about the way Cecil seemed to completely disregard rank, if only the man wasn’t such a good valet.

  “I wasn’t planning on drowning, Cecil,” Henry said. “Now, if you would be so kind as to hand me my robe.”

  Cecil handed Henry the robe from its hook by the fire and he wrapped the warm terry around himself.

  “Will you go to her tonight?” Cecil asked, busying himself with emptying the tub.

  “Should I?” Henry asked. It was an earnest question. He knew he had an obligation to consummate their union, but would Lady Emma feel the same way? Suddenly his palms began to sweat at the idea of laying with her and his heart sped up. He had been with women before, his prowess was not in question. There were plenty of widows and actresses quite eager for a romp with a man like Henry, and when he had needs that needed to be satisfied he was able to find company without stooping so low as to pay for it in one of the many baudy houses in London. But he had never bedded a wife, and he had certainly never bedded a virgin. He did not want to hurt the woman or scare her off what could be a mutual beneficial and pleasurable experience.

  “My Lord, only you can decide that, sir. But she is a lovely, plump gel isn’t she?” Cecil winked. “Be right joy to make her yer wife in truth and not just for yer father’s biddin’.”

  “That is my wife you are speaking about, Cecil.” Henry felt an overwhelming need to pummel the valet. “You best not forget her station or yours.” His voice was dark. “I will not bed my wife just because I can. She should be a willing participant in all aspects of this marriage.” Emma had been forced to endure enough these last few days at the hands of his father and her own. He did not want her subjected to further objectification in public nor in private by his own staff.

  “Yes, Sir, forgive me,” Cecil replied busying himself with work to avoid the daggers of Henry’s gaze. “I merely meant you were a lucky gent is all.”

  “Of course, Cecil, all is forgiven,” Henry replied. “In the future, however, let us be careful with the words we choose. Especially when referring to the lady of the house.” Cecil had been with Henry since he was only a boy of eighteen, and the man was loyal. Henry could forgive him for speaking of Lady Emma in such a careless manner - it was often how they had discussed the previous women in Henry’s life, but the fact of the matter was that he had begun to feel a slight tenderness for his new wife. She had asked for none of this, and while nor had he, it would be much more difficult for Emm
a to adjust to this new life than him. He would still have his ledgers, his club, his order and discipline. She, on the other hand, would have to adapt.

  “Cecil, I will take my leave of you, please get some rest.”

  He made his way toward the kitchen doors. Suddenly Henry very badly wanted to see Emma. She should be finished with her bath, and he hoped he would not be intruding, but the simple matter at hand was two-fold. He remembered how he came upon her sobbing earlier in the day and did not want her to feel the same way in her new home. Also, the house was rather small, and the master bedchamber was the only one done up for sleeping, and he was bone tired.

  Chapter Seven

  Warm and clean from her bath Emma donned her nightrail and began to brush out her hair. With each stroke she willed herself to take a deep and slow breath. Instead of allowing her nerves to take over in anticipation of the night to come, she focused her energy on reliving the day as it passed. However, it proved to be the exact opposite of the relaxing exercise she had hoped for.

  No amount of lavender scented soap and slow breathing could quell the anger as it bubbled up inside her again. Her emotions were wildly out of sync and it was all due to her being treated like no more than a prized cow, tossed to Henry for a tuppence to satisfy her father’s lack of monetary prowess and Drysdale’s political ambition.

  They had ripped her from everything she knew and held dear, and as a woman she had no more say than the cow they took her for. She missed her bedchamber at the manse. She missed her vanity with her things laid out as she liked for her to use.

  “How dare they!” she sputtered to the empty room, slamming the brush down on the chest of drawers.

  “My Lady did the drawers do something to offend you?” Emma whipped around to see her husband standing in the doorway, or rather seeing her husband taking up the entirety of the doorway, wearing nothing but his breeches and a dressing gown. She caught her breath as she realized his dark hair was damp an unruly, he too had had a bath.

  “My apologies, my Lord,” she said barely managing to keep the disdain she felt in check. “I was simply thinking about the circumstances that have led us here.” She waved her hand about the room.

  “I think we can dispense with the ‘my lord’ and ‘my lady’ now don’t you? After all we are married. Please call me Henry when we are alone.” He stepped off the doorway and walked toward her. She felt her pulse quicken, but her anger would not subside.

  “Very well, Henry,” she said. “Tell me, are you complacent and satisfied with what has befallen us?”

  “You mean our marriage?” he asked.

  “Yes, our marriage,” she replied stepping back. “Does it not bother you that we had no choice?”

  “What’s done is done,” he said looking down at her. He was so close to her now she could smell the soap from his bath. It was not lavender like her own, but something rawer and earthier. Underneath was another scent, one she found all too appealing, his own unique masculine smell. He picked up a strand of her hair that fell over her eye and rubbed it between his fingers, looking at it strangely as if, Emma thought, he had never seen hair before. “We had a duty. An obligation, and we fulfilled it,” he said quietly.

  They were both breathing hard, and Emma could not seem to shake her anger. So, he too saw it as his duty to marry. Was it that they were both such willing pawns to their fathers’ machinations?

  “What did he give you?” she said, pulling her hair from between his fingers and looking up at him boldly.

  “Give me?”

  “Yes, what was it? Did he increase your allowance? Offer you a seat at the table? A new estate? What was it worth to you Henry? What was selling your soul and buying an unwilling bride worth to you?” Her questions were coming fast and furious, like the anger she felt. She did not know where her courage came from to speak to Henry in such a manner, but she needed to know. She needed to know how deeply Henry was entwined in his father’s political games.

  “Emma, stop it.” He held up his hands in exasperation.

  “I won’t Henry, not until you tell me.”

  * * *

  “Dammit, woman!” His voice was raised more in exasperation than anger. “He didn’t give me anything, but he could take away everything!” Henry did not know what came over him, but standing over Emma with her sweet, lavender scent as she hurled insult after insult at him heated his blood. How could she not see if he did not honor his father’s wishes she would have been ruined? He was honor bound to marry her, not of his own choice but of his own volition. He was a gentleman after all.

  Her hair was wild now, as were her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed with the heat of their argument, but before she could snap a retort back he put both hands on her shoulders to get her to calm. A shock of electric that went through him at the touch of her bare skin was like fire. The heat in her eyes from her anger coupled with the warmth of the room and the fire in her temper made her irresistible, and before he could stop himself, Henry pulled her close closing what remained of the difference between them and covered her mouth with his own.

  Her lips were soft, yet unyielding. Henry did not know what came over him, but now that he was kissing her, he could not find it within himself to stop. What had started in exasperation quickly became an expression of apology. His mouth moved gently over hers, and she yielded letting out a soft moan, that gave Henry the permission he sought to deepen the kiss.

  He ran his tongue lightly over the seam where her top lip met her fuller, sweeter bottom lip, begging for her to open for him. Seeking forgiveness, he nibbled lightly at the plump part of her and she parted her lips ever so slightly allowing his tongue to taste, lick and tease.

  “Henry…” She sighed into him, and began to kiss him back, tentative at first, but then she began to use her own tongue to explore his mouth and meet him stroke for stroke. She brought her hands up from her sides and wrapped them around his neck pulling him closer. The combination of her arms around him and his name on her lips made his desire grow.

  He groaned into her. Her soft, plump curves melted into his hardness. How was it that a woman who could be as vulnerable to sob in front of him, spit fire at the unfairness of the situation they now found themselves and turn so sweet?

  Then as quickly as the kiss began Emma pulled back. He brought his hands up to his lips where moments before the warmth of her had melted him. Now he was cold for having her gone from him, but before he could reach for her again, she slapped him. Hard.

  “What…what the devil did you do that for?” he asked, breathless, his hand now moving towards his cheek. She was stronger than he would have thought, and the center of his face stung from her strike.

  “I don’t know,” she said, earnestly. Her lips slightly swollen from their kiss. “Why did you kiss me like that?”

  “I don’t know.” He truly could not have said at the exact moment what had propelled him to act so rashly. All he knew was she was yelling at him, he understood why, he felt as powerless as she did, and he needed to take a moment of control back, not for himself but for both of them. She had looked so beautiful, and she was his.

  Bloody hell, he thought. He wanted to kiss her again. He wanted to keep kissing her. What the devil is happening to me? He needed to get as far away from Emma as possible.

  He had been foolish to think he could spend the night in the room with her and not touch her. He knew enough by her anger and her questions that she was not going to come to his bed willingly, and he was not the type of man who would demand it. He had heard tales of men who treated their wives poorly, forcing their husbandly rights, and those men disgusted Henry.

  If he stayed with her much longer he would not take her against her will, but he would certainly want to try and seduce her, pleasure her until he teased his name from her lips again in pleasure and that simply would not do at all.

  He moved to leave the room. Getting away from his wife and quickly was exactly the right thing to do. It was late. They were tired,
and it was best he removed himself from her presence before he did something they both would regret. He turned to look at her one last time. She looked confused and hurt. He resisted the urge to take her into his arms and tell her it would all be well. That was the last thing either of them needed.

  “We break our fast at precisely nine o’clock. I will sleep in the library,” he said. “Good night.”

  Chapter Eight

  Emma woke with the first rays of light. She had not really slept. Instead she spent the last few hours of the night, tossing and turning, perplexed by Henry’s behavior the night before. Her hand instinctively went to her lips, which still felt swollen from her husband’s kiss.

  Why had he kissed her? And more importantly, why in heaven did she kiss him back? Why had she felt such a spark when their lips met, when his hands caressed her body.