Abigail followed him meekly.
Cary signed the registry first, then handed her the pen. “Sign your name, Abigail,” he told her curtly, “and this is the last time you will ever write it. From now on you are Abigail Wayborn, do you understand? You are no longer a member of that family.”
He paid the vicar of Little Straythorne as Abigail placed her name under his. The carriage was waiting for them in the moonlight. Abigail was overcome with a sense of doom as she climbed inside. No marriage with such a miserable beginning could ever end happily, she was sure. Knowing that they might have been happy if she hadn’t spoiled everything only added to her torment.
Cary took the seat opposite her. “You look utterly miserable,” he observed. “Not very flattering, considering this is our wedding night.”
Abigail glanced at him. “You look fairly grim yourself.”
“Do I?” He drank deeply from his flask. “Drink?”
Abigail took it from him gratefully. The Irish whisky gave just the combination of warmth and punishment she felt she deserved. She drained it.
Cary began pulling off his left boot. “For heaven’s sake, cheer up,” he said crossly. “Try and look happy when we arrive at Gooseneck Hall. Where’s the shoehorn? I need it to put my dancing pumps on. I’m sorry, but I refused to be married in dancing pumps. I married you in my last pair of Hoby’s boots. Remember that.”
“Gooseneck Hall!” she cried, suppressing a hiccough. “Cary, I couldn’t.”
“As good a place as any to announce our marriage,” he said with forced cheer. “Try smiling. You remember how to smile, don’t you?”
“No!” said Abigail, panicking.
He stopped struggling with his boot. “Just turn up the corners of your mouth, like so.”
“No, Cary, we cannot announce our marriage. I forbid it.”
He scowled. “Are you seriously proposing we keep it a secret?”
“No, we couldn’t do that. But I must tell my father first.” She hesitated. She couldn’t be sure if, in his eyes, being Red Ritchie’s daughter was any better than being Dulwich’s sister. As for being Dulwich’s former betrothed…it didn’t bear thinking about. “Cary, about my father—”
He held up his hand. “Don’t worry about your father. I’ll tell him. I’ll write him a letter. You needn’t see him at all.”
“Not see him?” Abigail felt a sudden cold fear. She had not considered this before, but, as her husband, Cary now had near absolute power over her in the eyes of the law. He would be well within his rights to prevent her from seeing her father, if he so wished. He could hold her prisoner, if that was his desire. And, of course, he was legally entitled to the use of her fortune. And her body. In fact, it was now legally his fortune and his body, to do with as he pleased.
“Cary, you would not prevent me from seeing my own father?” she asked, hating the note of pleading that crept into her voice. “You would not be so cruel.”
He seemed surprised. “Do you want to see your father?”
“Yes, of course, I do. I love my father very much. And he deserves to hear about—about this from me, face to face.”
He smiled sardonically. “Then by all means, you must tell him about this face to face.”
“I shall go home on Monday as planned, and I shall tell him then.”
“Would you like me to go with you?”
“No,” she said quickly.
He shrugged. “Just as you please.”
“You don’t understand. He always wanted me to marry well.”
“And this you have not done?” he said coldly.
Abigail realized she was offending him at every turn, and making a bad situation worse. “Please understand, Cary. My father very much wanted me to marry a title. He spent a fortune on my education, my clothes. I had lessons in everything. Dance lessons, piano lessons, singing lessons, art lessons, lessons in French, Italian, and German, even lessons in walking and talking. And I was never good at any of it.”
“You walk and talk.”
“This is going to hurt my father,” said Abigail. “He had such ambitions for me.”
“I’m not precisely a bootblack, you know,” he said, fuming. “So what if I haven’t got a title? I am a gentleman. I have an estate. But Tanglewood is too small for him, I daresay.”
“Do you expect him to rejoice in your debts?” Abigail returned.
“Bugger your father,” he said violently. “If you wish to go on seeing him, do so. But you needn’t ask him to Tanglewood. He will not be welcome under my roof.”
“You can’t be serious!” Abigail protested. “He’s my father, Cary.”
“What about Dulwich?” he demanded. “Surely you’ve no desire to see him again?”
“No, indeed,” she quickly assured him. “I never want to see him again. Cary, there’s something I must tell you about Dulwich. My father—”
“I’ve heard enough about Dulwich and your father, madam,” he interrupted. “Not another word on the subject, I beg you. You may see whomever you like when you are in Town. Only, do not bring them here, and do not force me to listen to any account of people whom I so thoroughly despise. Also, I shall make it clear through my attorneys that I will accept no consideration from your family. Nor should you.”
“What, nothing?” Abigail cried in astonishment.
“Not a ha’ penny,” he said firmly. “I trust, madam, that you can live within two or three thousand a year, because that is all your husband can provide.”
“But I have some money of my own,” she said. “My father still manages it, of course, but it is mine outright, settled on me when I came of age. You would not require me to return it, simply because you dislike my family?”
He frowned at her. “No one is going to rob you, if that’s what you mean. You’ll have your money, madam, don’t worry.”
Abigail retreated into silence. He had succeeded in making her feel small and mercenary.
Cary knocked on the roof, and when the driver opened the panel he gave curt instructions for them to be conveyed back to Tanglewood Manor. “At least,” he said sullenly, as the panel slid closed, “there is no need for you to pretend to be happy, Mrs. Wayborn.”
“Cary, I’m sorry,” she said desperately. “I know I’ve ruined everything.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” he said briskly, but Abigail’s glimmer of hope quickly died when he added, “It was fairly well doomed at the start. Perhaps it was a mistake to sell my Cromwell in order to buy that silly license. I thought you’d be nicer in bed than the Lord Protector, but I suppose there’s not the least chance of my claiming the rights of a husband now.”
Abigail’s eyes flew to his face. “What do you mean now?”
“I didn’t mean precisely now. I had no thought of ravishing you here in the carriage.” He looked at her in growing amusement. “Perhaps I should.”
Abigail knew her face was scarlet, but, despite her embarrassment, her skin prickled with excitement. If he wants me, she thought, then perhaps all is not lost. It was not the same as true love, of course, but at least it was something.
“Since you will not permit me to announce to the world that I am your husband, I cannot spend the night with you. Either we consummate our union in secret or not at all.”
Abigail bit her lip. “Then you would wish us to have a real marriage?”
“If by ‘real marriage’ you mean one that includes the physical congress of our two naked bodies, I’d say you have the situation well in hand. Yes, Abigail, I do intend to be a rather impertinent fixture in your bed. Are you prepared for life with a demanding partner?”
Abigail swallowed hard. “Is that why you married me?” she asked evenly. “Because you wish to make love to me again?”
“Not in the least,” he replied. “I haven’t the slightest wish to make love to you again.”
“Oh!” said Abigail, thoroughly confused.
“I thought I was clear,” said Cary, pulling off his white gl
oves. “Making love to you again would be a shocking waste of our talents. What I propose is that we do it repeatedly, perhaps even incessantly, for the first week or two, starting now.”
Chapter 13
“I like to begin slowly,” he said, sliding onto the seat beside her. He kissed her with surprising tenderness, finding her lips and coaxing them open with the point of his tongue. But while his mouth dallied with hers, his hands contradicted his words. They moved over her body hungrily, stripping the padding impatiently from the bosom of her borrowed gown. “With you I do not always succeed. You do make my blood run fast. Ah, there you are,” he breathed, finding her small breast.
Abigail sucked in her breath, wondering if she could ever become accustomed to such intimacy with a man, even this man, whom she adored. In the next moment, both his hands were inside her dress, and then the dress itself was down around her waist. She guessed he must have vast experience undressing women in fast-moving vehicles. Rather a depressing credential for a husband, she reflected gloomily.
“Drawers,” he muttered unhappily, as his hand worked its way up her leg under her skirts.
“Only you would wear drawers at such a moment.”
Abigail began to babble as he tore through the buttons on her silk drawers. “It isn’t going to be like—like it was that night, you know. I’m not like that. It was the laudanum. It made me behave—it made me feel—” She gasped as he suddenly entered her with his finger. She flinched, but the pain she feared never materialized. It felt, not pleasant exactly, but warm and natural. Instinctively, her muscles contracted around it. “I never did any of those things before.”
“I should bloody well hope not,” he replied, dragging her further down on the seat so that her head rested on the cushions.
She looked up at him as he fitted himself between her legs. “You’re bound to be disappointed,” she said fearfully, her body taut with anxiety.
He looked down at her as he slowly opened his evening breeches at the front. “Perhaps you will be disappointed,” he remarked as he freed his fully aroused member.
Abigail squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the inevitable first thrust, longing for it almost as much as she dreaded it. “If it is only one tenth of what I felt before, I shall not be disappointed,” she breathed.
“How much do you remember of that night?”
“I remember everything,” she whispered, shame-faced.
He laughed softly, then, to her astonishment, he slipped to his knees, burying his head between her thighs. She clapped her legs together just seconds too late, and there was no dislodging him. It was so acutely personal, she was not sure she could bear it at first, let alone enjoy it. He kissed her first through the silk of her drawers, then as, little by little, the tension in her muscles relaxed, he parted the silk and pleasured her with his tongue, feeding hungrily, as Abigail, unable to resist him any longer, raked her fingers through his hair. Oblivious to everything else, she pursued the coming crisis and cried out in relief when it burst within. It was not the laudanum, she realized. It was Cary. He was magic. He could make her feel in ways she had not thought possible.
She opened her eyes and smiled at him dreamily. He caught his breath, unable to resist the look on her face, that of a woman given over completely to sexual desire. The scent of her intoxicated him. “For God’s sake, take me in your hands and guide me home before I disgrace myself,” he begged, falling on her like some wild beast.
Abigail had no idea how he could ever disgrace himself, but she quickly did as he told her, forcing the head of his erection into her tender entrance.
Slowly he filled her, touching her to the womb, delighting in the response of her body. He moved in concert with the gently swaying carriage, so perfectly in contact with her most sensitive part that Abigail was carried away almost instantly on another tide of bliss. Her second crisis proved too much for him, however. “Forgive me,” he murmured in her ear as the very last of his willpower gave way amidst her seductive little whimpers. He gathered her legs over his hips and plunged into her again and again. Abigail at first was mindful of the proximity of the coachman, but as his thrusts drove her relentlessly to the peak of pleasure, a savage, broken cry fell from her lips. Cary roared as he emptied himself into her clinging body, then retreated to his side of the carriage. “I did not mean to do that,” he murmured. “My poor darling. You deserve so much better.”
Abigail was too emotional to find words. She was married. Her husband, the man she was bound to body and soul forever and ever, was a man so depraved that he actually had ravished her in a carriage. Worse, he had made her like it. She was certain the coachman had heard her crying out at her zenith. Compared to their last encounter, this had been quite brief, yet the effect had been just as powerful upon her senses. Unquestionably, she would have been quite willing and able to do anything he required of her. She doubted she could have stopped if the coachman had actually opened the trap to inquire why the young lady was screaming. And she hadn’t the excuse of opium. Perhaps, she thought hopefully, I’m as bad as he is.
There was scarcely enough time to straighten their clothes before the carriage came to a stop. “Disappointed?” he asked politely as she stuffed the pads back into the borrowed dress. He looked so cocksure that for a moment Abigail deeply resented him. She was nowhere near him in shameless depravity, she realized sadly. He seemed satisfied, too, which gave her hope for the future. If she could please him in this way, even if he did not love her, perhaps they could forge a happy life together.
Trembling from head to foot, she did not trust herself to speak. She shook her head. She would just have to try harder, that was all. She had no choice. She would have to be everything he wanted. Do everything he wanted. Because if he ever went elsewhere for love, she would die.
Cary brought her safely inside the house and placed her in the care of Mrs. Nashe before bidding both ladies good night. “Tell me everything,” Vera said eagerly, the instant he had gone. “I’ve never seen your eyes so bright, my dear. I perceive you were a great success.”
Abigail wished for the thousandth time that she was not such a blusher. “Perhaps a small success,” was all she would allow herself to say. Pleading exhaustion, or headache—her head was so full of Cary, she couldn’t be sure of what she was saying—she ran upstairs to her room.
“What kept you?” Cary asked. He was sitting on her bed, entertaining the corgi with one of the cravats he had removed from his neck. He had already removed his boots and his stockings, and, with his brown calves and bare feet on display, he looked more than ever like a gypsy prince. Abigail stared at him, once again a little frightened by the powerful physical attraction she felt for him. Would she ever get used to this? She stared at him in dismay. What she desperately needed at that moment was time alone. Time to sort out her wrecked feelings, time to digest the enormity of what she had done, time to devise a plan for winning her husband’s heart. Time to curl up in a ball and cry like a baby.
“You might want to close the door,” he said. “You’re letting in a draft.”
She hastily closed the door. “How did you get up here so fast?”
“It’s my house, monkey. I’ve got keys and architectural plans. A man can always get into his own house. Surely I am not unwelcome in my lady’s chamber?” he added mockingly.
After what had transpired in the carriage, she could scarcely pretend an outraged modesty. She could always be alone tomorrow. All at once it occurred to her that many men in his position would not have felt obligated to marry her at all. They certainly would not have insisted on it, after the way she behaved. And if he was making light of it, at least he did not treat her with contempt. Her heart swelled with gratitude. He might not love her, but he was a true gentleman. She could always trust to his honor. “You’re most welcome, sir,” she said humbly. “I did not expect to see you here, that’s all.”
He stood up and began unbuttoning his peacock blue waistcoat. “Indeed? If your
purpose was to keep me at arm’s length, I’m afraid you’ve gone about it all wrong!”
She smiled shyly. “But I have no wish to keep you at arm’s length.”
“Then you have succeeded,” he said, grinning as he hauled his shirt over his head. “Aren’t you going to get undressed, Mrs. Green-ashamed-to-be-seen? A man shouldn’t have to fight with padded bosoms and buttoned-up drawers on his wedding night. At least, not twice.”
He shoved the corgi off of the bed and stripped off his breeches. It was completely unfair that she was so shy and he wasn’t shy at all, Abigail reflected. It was inhuman. Even beautiful people ought to be possessed of a little modesty.
“How can you be such a nudist?” she asked, exasperated. “And so brown all over?” she added as he bent to pull back the covers, giving her an excellent view of his copper-brown backside.
“I lie out by the river in the summertime,” he explained, bundling up his clothes and tossing them on the chair. Angel, his master’s cravat in his mouth, hopped onto the warm clothes and settled down to enjoy his heavily starched snack.
“What if someone were to see you naked?” Abigail asked, horrified.
“Lucky them,” he carelessly replied. He lay down on the bed, and stretched out with his arms folded behind his head. Almost as much as she loved him, she envied him for his complete lack of self-consciousness. “Hurry up, Abigail,” he commanded. “I wish to see you in all your glory, un-upholstered, wearing only your blushes.”
“Freckles, you mean,” she said ruefully.
“I like your freckles,” he responded. “Show me these freckles of which you speak. I would study them at length, and praise them, and kiss them.”
She wasn’t about to give him a show of freckles or anything else. She opened the wardrobe and hid behind one of its doors as she undressed. Her best nightgown felt cool against her skin. As her head emerged from it, she caught sight of a book resting on the bottom shelf. She picked it up and closed the wardrobe.
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