Still, he had not capitulated to his instinct for self-preservation—the instinct to run as far as possible from Lucy Charming. Instead, he had lied to her, to keep her safe, and though she would marry him, she would despise him. Nick wiped his suddenly damp hands on his worn breeches.
When the whole charade had begun, he had not cared whether she loved him. She was entertaining. She was a challenge. He wanted her, and she would irritate his father. All that had seemed enough, if he were forced to settle for a bride. Now, though, in the cold light of dawn, none of those things mattered anymore. Boredom, self-indulgence, even spiting his father could all be satisfied in a myriad of ways. His love for Lucy could only be fulfilled if it was returned, and his lies would prevent her from ever opening her heart to him.
Despair filled him, and he slumped on the log. He had spent most of his life trying to escape who and what he was, to avoid his destiny, but alone on a hillside above Nottingham, he could no longer elude himself. Nicholas St. Germain, Crown Prince of Santadorra, was, like many men before him, forced to accept that the situation he’d created was his own doing, and his own damnation.
MR. TWICKENHAM was the curate of the parish and did the real work of tending to the flock while Mr. Whippet danced attendance on the duchess. Lucy could tell from his pursed lips that he was scandalized by the whole affair, for who had ever heard of a royal wedding held in a cave?
Mrs. Selkirk’s cottage, though, proved adequate for the small wedding party. Lucy hid herself in the bedchamber, ostensibly to don the dress that Tom Selkirk had borrowed from one of the neighbors, but her real purpose was to avoid Nick.
He had lied. The more she considered it, the more certain she grew. How could he have witnessed the devastation in the market square and still remain unchanged? Tom Selkirk had told her of Nick’s heroics, not only his rescue of her but of the woman with the babe. Besides, a flicker of guilt had flashed in Nick’s eyes when he’d claimed the victory of their wager. His gaze had not quite met hers, as if he were hiding something.
Mrs. Selkirk opened the door to the bedchamber, her smile as broad as her ample middle. “Come now, dearie. ‘Tis time.”
Lucy put a hand to the bandage on her forehead and willed the fluttering in her stomach to subside. Unfortunately, the Selkirks, having learned Nick’s true identity, were pleased beyond reason that their beloved Lady Lucy had snared a handsome prince. Visions of happily ever after danced in Mrs. Selkirk’s eyes especially. Only a prince would have been fine enough for the motherless miss who had stood on a stool in her kitchen at Charming Hall to stir the puddings and soups.
Lucy refused to cry for herself, but her feelings for the Selkirks as her surrogate family threatened her equanimity. She gave her homespun skirt a final brush and moved toward the door. “The sooner we start, the sooner it will be done.”
Mrs. Selkirk put an arm around Lucy’s shoulders as she brought her into the main room. “Tut, tut, my dear. ‘Twill not be so bad. At least you will be out of your stepmother’s clutches.”
Lucy couldn’t echo Mrs. Selkirk’s sentiments, though, for she was sure that life as a crown princess would be far more onerous than even she suspected. They moved to the center of the room, and Lucy looked over the company. The groom stood patiently by the fireplace while what was surely the most unusual party ever to grace a royal wedding assembled in a half circle around the curate. In the corner, the woman Nick had rescued lay on a makeshift pallet and nursed her baby to keep him quiet. Tom Selkirk begrudged the groom a bow and then stood as best man. Mrs. Selkirk, her work-roughened hands hidden in her apron, stood next to Lucy to attend her. Mr. Selkirk sat at the rough table, ready with ink and quill so that the couple might sign the special license as soon as possible.
Lucy heard very little of the ceremony until the waspish little curate said, “Do you, Lucinda Eleanor Charming, take this man to be your lawful husband?”
Her throat closed when she opened her mouth to answer, and no sound emerged. How could she do this? How could she sacrifice her love for reform? But how could she not, for it was a debt of honor she owed to Nick. And in truth, she could not deny the longings of her own heart, however disastrous they might prove.
Perhaps, at least for a short time, she could have the man she loved. The thought filled her with both hope and despair. Because for whatever brief joy she might find, she knew that devastation would surely follow. They were so unsuited, so different in their aims and purposes and beliefs. Marriage was the worst mistake they could make.
She couldn’t look at Nick, or at anyone else for that matter. If she were going to leap from a cliff onto the rocks below, she would simply shut her mind to the consequences and jump. “I do,” Lucy said, the words slightly breathless.
The curate continued. “Do you, Nicholas Alexander Leopold St. Germain, take this woman to be your lawful wife?”
“I do.” Nick’s thunderous affirmation left no room for doubt, but he said the words as if they weighed twelve stone.
Another few moments, and it was done. There was no kiss, for Lucy turned her face and moved away from Nick as quickly as possible. Mrs. Selkirk produced a great quantity of cakes, and Tom carried a plate and a mug of milk to the woman and baby in the corner.
Not the most romantic of moments, Lucy thought, but it would suffice. Mr. Selkirk dipped the pen in the inkwell and offered it to her, and Lucy signed her name with deft, bold strokes, binding herself forever to the man she loved. It was folly of the worst kind, and the most exasperating bit was that she could not deny that she wanted Nick. She only feared what would happen now that she had him.
THEY WERE NOT to spend their wedding night at the Selkirks’, Lucy learned shortly after she signed the special license that Nick had brought with him from London.
“Mr. Selkirk has agreed to drive us into town in his cart.” Nick held himself as stiffly as he had during the ceremony, as if any sudden movement might unleash a disastrous torrent of feeling.
“Into town?” Lucy was surprised. “Is it safe with the dragoons there?”
“The soldiers left yesterday, and the market square has been put to rights.” Nick’s face was impassive, but Lucy could hear the sadness in his voice. “There is little left to evidence recent events.”
Nick had refused to take her to the square to view the aftermath of the soldiers’ attack, and she’d been angry. Secretly, though, she’d been relieved as well. No one wanted to view her dreams as they lay in ruins.
“Very well,” she said, suddenly nervous. She’d been so intent upon the wedding ceremony that she’d not considered the wedding night. “We need our rucksacks.”
“Tom put them in the cart before the curate arrived.”
Lucy wiped suddenly damp palms on her borrowed skirt. “We should help Mrs. Selkirk with the washing up. She has enough to manage with a sick guest and an infant.”
Nick’s brow furrowed in frustration. “Lucy, you are the bride. Mrs. Selkirk would not want you up to your elbows in suds.”
“Oh. Of course not. You’re right, certainly.” She tried to think of another reason to delay, but no inspiration occurred to forestall what was to happen next. Their good-byes took no time at all, and Lucy soon found herself once more riding in the back of an ox cart with Nick. She heartily wished for the presence of the other men who had accompanied them from London. Anything to distract her from—
“Lucy . . .” Nick began to speak and then stopped. She waited, glad for the quantity of hay separating them. It had happened so quickly, the wedding, but there’d been no point in procrastinating. Nick was not going to release her from their agreement. She could see it in his eyes. And in the most secret corner of her soul she was glad. She had just married the man she loved. It was sure to be a disaster. He would never be able to understand the dearest wishes of her heart, and ahead she could see only division and the ruin of her hopes. Perhaps he would divorce her or have it annulled, but for now the marriage lines were there, tucked in the pocket of his
vest, an irrevocable fact. She had just married, and now she was to have a wedding night with a man she loved, a man who would surely put an end to her dreams.
Lucy sighed and glanced at the sky. It was still not yet noon and hours to go before the late summer sun would set, and darkness would claim the sky. How did one survive such a quantity of anticipation of what might prove to be both a disaster and a fantasy?
Mr. Selkirk drove them to an inn on the London road and pulled into the busy yard. The native stone of the long, low building glowed with the patina of age.
“We’ll return to Town by post chaise in the morning,” Nick informed her as they climbed from the back of the cart. Lucy would have preferred to prolong their journey instead of facing the reality of her new marital state. Her steps faltered. Nick reached out and grasped her hand as they crossed the coach yard.
“What will we do, then, ‘til tomorrow?” she asked, and the look he shot her almost melted her bones. Lucy blushed at her poor choice of words. Gathering her courage, she persisted. “Until nighttime, then. What shall we do until it grows dark? If we are hiring a post chaise, we might be halfway to London before nightfall.”
Nick opened the door to the inn’s taproom and ushered her inside. “Has anyone mentioned waiting until dark?” he whispered in her ear, and her insides turned to jelly. Why wasn’t she fighting her fate with greater passion? Why was she not railing at the unfairness that had taken her destiny from her own hands? Instead, she stood meekly by as her new husband bespoke a room, paid the innkeeper with a few guineas, and then led her up the staircase to a wooden door. The innkeeper had given Nick a heavy iron key, and when he placed it neatly in the lock it turned with a soft click, and the door swung open.
Lucy stepped forward, but Nick stopped her by sweeping her into his arms and carrying her across the threshold. “I only plan to marry once, Lucy,” he murmured in her ear, and his warm breath was like the caress of a soft, moist breeze. “Let’s not eschew any of the niceties.”
Lucy’s heart almost stopped at the seductive promise of his words. He kicked the door shut behind them with his boot and crossed the room to the lumpy-looking bed. Thankfully, instead of laying her across the mattress, he released her legs and allowed her to stand upright. The room was dim, for only a small window allowed the late-morning light to invade the interior. The chamber was far from luxurious, barely comfortable in fact, but for all its inadequacies, it was exactly where Lucy Charming did—and did not—want to be.
“You should have had flowers,” Nick said and stepped toward the window. Lucy had expected him to move toward her, not away, and disappointment flitted through her.
“Nothing about our acquaintance has been anything like the usual courtship,” Lucy said with as much equanimity as she could manage. “Why should our wedding be any different?”
Nick turned back from beneath the window and smiled slightly. “I suppose this is the point at which I should do the honorable thing and allow you to refuse me a husband’s privileges.”
“Are you going to? Do the honorable thing, I mean.” Lucy found herself slightly breathless, fearing either answer and unsure which she preferred.
“I’ve not managed to do an honorable thing since I met you, princess. Why should I begin now?” Despite his words and the sensual undercurrent of them, he remained immobile by the window.
“Why, indeed,” Lucy murmured. She felt like a tightly coiled spring. Blast the man. Why didn’t he simply kiss her and let nature take its course? She was nervous enough without this need for conversation.
He straightened. “Tell me to get out, Lucy, if you’ve no desire for what lies ahead. Tell me now, and say it with conviction. With passion.” He stopped and rubbed his temple with thumb and forefinger. “No, not with passion. With indifference.” He looked up at her, his brown eyes full of something she didn’t quite dare to name. “Yes, with cool, disdainful indifference.”
“What would you have me say?” She wasn’t a tightly coiled spring after all. She was a woman standing on the edge of a precipice, and the wind was blowing against her back. She could turn away if she wanted, and, despite everything, he would let her. He was an honorable man, no matter how he thought of himself. Telling him to leave would be the wise course. The prudent course. Small wonder she couldn’t follow it, but then she never had before.
“Would you have me lie?” She forced herself to speak firmly to belie the fact that her knees threatened to knock together. “I am not indifferent, Nick. How could any woman be indifferent to you?”
Her words lit a low flame in his eyes. His hands rose, and he quickly shirked his leather vest. “Then what are you, princess, if not indifferent? Because I confess I do not know.”
What was she, indeed? A telling question, and the answer was just as revealing. She had no intent of making that particular revelation in Nick’s hearing. “Perhaps I am angry.”
Nick moved toward her, his steps muffled by the dusty carpet beneath their feet. He crooked one finger and placed it beneath her chin, and his touch singed her skin, flame against flesh. For a long moment, he examined her, turning her head one way and then another. Her knees threatened to buckle instead of knock.
“You don’t appear angry,” he said in a soft voice, and his closeness set her heart to pounding. “Your cheeks are not red. Your eyes sparkle, but not from fury. And though your breath seems to have quickened, you are not tensed to strike out at me. No, you are not angry.”
Lucy wanted him down to the darkest depths of her soul. It was a painful realization, and an even more painful admission, but it was the truth nonetheless. She had a vague idea of what occurred in the marital bed. She had an even clearer idea of the demands of her own body, and something within her longed to learn the demands of his.
“Perhaps I am repulsed,” she snapped, her frustration rising even further. “The mere idea of the marriage bed may be repugnant to me.”
He smiled then. He did it so rarely that its effect was all the more devastating. Strong, even teeth. Mobile lips. Faint lines around the corners. Repulsive was not the first word that sprang to mind.
“I’ve seen you repulsed, princess. When you find a man repellent, you swing a scythe at him. Or fling a teakettle in his midsection. But I daresay you do not stand this near to him”—he moved even closer—”and allow him to touch what he has so long dreamt of.”
She would surely melt under the warmth of his gaze. His hand grazed her shoulder and then lightly, softly, continued downward until his fingertips reached the curve of her breast. Lucy gasped and thought her heart might leap from her body. He had touched her there before, that night in the maze at Carlton House, but the gentle pressure felt as fresh and thrilling as it had the first time. Would it always be this way? With Nick, she feared so.
“No,” she admitted weakly. “I am not repulsed.”
He rewarded her by leaning forward and placing a soft kiss on her mouth. Their lips clung for a long, heart-stopping moment, the fulfillment of every girlish dream she’d ever had, and then he pulled away. “Then what are you, Lucy Charming?” he murmured, his face mere inches from hers. “For I should dearly like to know.”
She was in love, was what she was, but she would never admit it to him. He held far too much power over her as it was.
“I am a wife, as our wager dictates,” she replied as calmly and evenly as she could manage. “That is all.” Nick hesitated, his eyes searching hers, and then seemed to accept her answer.
“Then come to bed, my wife.” She expected him to grab her wrist, as he was so wont to do, or at least take her hand and lead her to the bed. Instead, he stepped to the side, tugged back the bedclothes, and gestured toward the lumpy expanse of the mattress.
Lucy swallowed hard. She would not turn craven now. “Perhaps I should undress first?”
Nick reddened, and she realized he’d forgotten that detail. A little thrill of pleasure shot through her. The debonair rogue had overlooked the obvious. Perhaps his san
gfroid was not as complete as it appeared.
“An excellent idea,” he said, and his eyes traced her from lips to toes, shifting the balance of power back in his favor. “Where would you like to begin?”
Chapter Seventeen
LUCY HESITATED, her fingers crumpling her skirt. She was only Lucy Charming, forgotten daughter of an eccentric duke. She was a reformer by night, a mistreated stepdaughter by day, but when it came to Nick, she had no idea who she was or what she was supposed to do. How did one go about being a wife? Her ignorance was appalling.
“Princess?” His teasing smile faded. Her fear must show in her eyes. “I know you, princess. You would not be standing here with me if you did not wish to be. Are you frightened?”
Terrified, but she’d rather perish on the spot than admit to it. He knew everything that was about to occur, while she could only guess. And hope. And dream.
“Kiss me.” She meant to sound commanding, but the words came out rather breathlessly. Her husband, though, seemed not to notice anything untoward, for he bent with alacrity to perform the task.
The feel of Nick’s lips on hers was so intense, so alive. Keen awareness enervated every part of her body. How strange, and how delightful, that the simple act of mouths meeting should produce such wonder. In another moment, his tongue reached out to trace her lips, and she willingly parted them, allowing him access to the richness and depth of a full lovers’ kiss. He groaned, and the purely masculine sound brought a heavy sensation to her womb. Her thighs clenched, and she instinctively pressed her body against his.
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