“Ho-hum.” She patted her mouth.
After he discovered the work, and accused her of duplicity and betrayal, she’d made her stand, hoping to persuade him that her motives were pure and to give the teachings a chance. Yes, she should have told him the source of what he deemed her uncanny ability to soothe his troubled soul, but she suspected he would reject Larrey’s ideas simply because the doctor was French. It seemed a reasonable conclusion. Hoping for an opportune moment, when her husband would be more receptive, to share the innovative perspective, she delayed. However well-intentioned, that had been a huge miscalculation on her part. One she feared he might never forgive.
Following their row, while she broke her fast, he sat on the settee, flipping through the pages. He took his lunch from a tray perched beside him. He ate dinner in the same place. Nary a word passed between them for the remains of the day, much to her chagrin, because she would have loved to examine Larrey’s deductions through her husband’s perspective.
Another thunderous roar shook the house, and she thought she heard Anthony shout. In a rush, she flung back the covers and dropped her legs over the edge of the bed. Then she paused. What if she overreacted? What if naught were amiss? Another cry caught her ear. Standing, she eased her feet into her slippers and grabbed her robe.
Again, her tormented soldier bellowed.
“I’m coming, my lord.” She ran to the doors and flung open a single oak panel. In the sitting room, she spotted him, slumped to the right and still hugging the book. As she tugged on the heavy tome, he rolled his head from side to side and muttered incoherent gibberish. “Shh, my darling, else Shaw’s henchmen may assail us.”
“The cannons. They attack the center. They attack the center.” He winced and flinched, and his agony, so apparent, gnawed at her gut. “Boney advances on the crest of Mont Saint Jean. We are too close. Too close.”
“No, my lord,” she stated in a soft voice, in an attempt to calm. To soothe. She wiped his damp brow and tried to hush him, as she whispered reassurances. “There are no cannons here, and you are fine. Are you chilled? Shall I stoke the embers?”
“We must retrench. We must fall back to the line and gather what survives of our forces, else we will lose the day.” Ignoring her pleas, he gave vent to an unrecognizable exclamation, something almost inhuman remarkably timed with another resounding crash of thunder. “Lively, men. Make haste. Make haste to La Haye Sainte, else we are doomed.”
“Anthony, please, you must be quiet.” His trauma, almost palpable, spoke to her on an elementary but nonetheless powerful level she could not quite identify. Desperate and unable to free him from his imaginary prison, she shook him hard, and at last he opened his eyes and searched her face. “It is me, Arabella, and you are safe. We remain locked in our bedchamber, in your father’s house.”
“Can you not hear the gunfire and the mournful cries?” He grabbed her by the forearm and wrenched her close, so he could hug her about the waist. “Do you not smell the smoke?” He sucked in a breath and nodded toward the overstuffed chair near the window. “Look there. Do you not see the enemy hides in the shadows, waiting to attack? We are surrounded, and we are routed, but we cannot yield.”
“No, my lord, there is no enemy here, and there are no guns. What you hear is a storm. Mother Nature throws quite a row, tonight. That is all.” She cradled his cheeks and held his turbulent gaze. “I, alone, am with you, and I will never leave you.”
Just when she thought she reached him, he released her and retreated. With his hand covering his eyes, he groaned. Thunder rattled the windows, and Anthony reverted to his fitful state. Clenching his teeth, he scrunched his face and emitted a spine-chilling growl that gave her gooseflesh.
“Make it stop,” he begged and thrashed with his arm. “Please, by all that is holy, make it stop, as I can bear no more.”
“Tell me what to do, and I will do it.” Her mind raced in all directions, and she recounted Larrey’s methods for calming an agitated veteran. In rapid succession, she recalled the various suggestions. Seizing on a course of action, she grasped her husband by his shoulders and jolted him. “My lord, focus on my voice. Listen to the words I speak, and breathe. Inhale and exhale. Do you hear me? Can you do as I ask?”
“Aye.” He nodded once and compressed his lips. “I will try.”
“Do you know who I am?” she inquired and uttered a silent prayer that he answered in the affirmative, because she knew not what to do otherwise. “Do you recognize me?”
“Of course, I do.” He sighed, a mournful, heavy expression she felt down to her toes, and she resolved to support him, come what may. A moment passed. It seemed like a lifetime until he, at last, replied, “You are Arabella, my wife.”
“Yes.” Perched on tiptoes, she massaged his temples, and he moaned an approval. “Where are we, at present?”
“Surrey.” He swallowed, and she coveted a small victory. “At one of my father’s estates.”
“Are there any French soldiers here?” Beneath her fingertips, he tensed, and she kneaded her way along the sides of his neck. “Do the cannons still fire?”
Just as she posed her query, an ear-splitting thunderclap rocked the house, bathing the sitting room in blinding staccato bursts of silvery light. A cheerful pastorale painting dislodged from its hook on the wall and landed with a muffled thud on the Aubusson rug, and a book fell from a side table. Trinkets clinked atop the escritoire, and under her feet the floor tremored.
When Anthony lunged, she braced to extend or withstand whatever remedy he required to endure his latest episode of nostalgia, and she vowed not to fail him. The first touch gave her little warning of the incoming tide of emotion he unleashed on her, reminiscent of their heated, impromptu interlude the night her father announced the engagement. Then, it had been quite a shock, because she had never been kissed. But her husband had long ago schooled her in the art of ravishment, so she responded in a manner sure to ease his pain, as she unwittingly did in her father’s study.
In short, Arabella kissed him.
Wrapping her arms about his neck, she met him measure for measure, as he set his mouth to hers. Her thighs erupted in flames, searing a path to her belly, and desire rode hard in its wake. There was nothing reserved or refined in his approach, when he flicked his tongue to hers and squeezed her bottom. As usual, he charged with unfettered passion she could neither contain nor control, and his lone hand proved no real obstacle, because he caressed her everywhere with the gentlest strokes.
While outside, a violent deluge pounded the roof, inside a torrent of another sort intensified. Resolved to ride the wave of pleasure he provoked; Arabella denied him nothing. Unswerving in his advance, he whirled her about and backed her against the wall, but she feared him not, because he would never hurt her. Unshakeable trust in her instincts bolstered her confidence, so she let go the reins and rode hell bent for leather with her man into uncharted territory.
At some point, he drew her into the bedchamber, and the backs of her knees connected with the footboard of the large four-poster. Unbalanced, she waved her arms wildly in the air before toppling onto the mattress. Whereas she expected Anthony to help her upright, instead, he covered her.
The decadent slip and slide, an intoxicating and new sensation, overwhelmed her, and she knew not how to respond. No doubt, he expected her to assert herself, as an active participant. Her book knowledge offered no real strategy, but her hesitance mattered not, because it became clear her husband had a plan.
Again, he claimed her mouth, bruising her lips as he moved on her. The urgency. The raw hunger beckoned, and she answered the summons. Together, in a clumsy dance, they scooted toward the pillows. When he became tangled in his coat, she helped him shuffle free and then removed his waistcoat, cravat, and fine muslin shirt. To her shock, he made quick work of her robe and nightgown, exposing her, unimpeded, for his enjoyment.
She should have maintained her modesty. Should have shown self-restraint. Instead, she e
xtended her hands and flicked her fingers in an unmistakable invitation. To her relief and benefit, he accepted.
As the storm escalated, so did their heated tryst. With her palms pressed to his bare chest, she lifted her chin, and he trailed feathery kisses along the curve of her neck and lower. Reclining amid the soft sheets and the plush counterpane, she stared, unseeing, at the rich velvet canopy, as her husband licked one breast and then the other, and fire scorched a path across her flesh. Charged her nerves. To her inexpressible delight, he lingered, suckling gently and grazing his teeth playfully to her nipples, and she struggled with a heretofore-unknown ache. Sensations foreign yet unutterably seductive.
He pressed on her caresses meant to entice. To arouse. And she followed his lead. Denied him nothing, even as a warning flashed in the dark recesses of her brain. Not that he did anything wrong or that he forced himself on her. Oh, no. She desired her husband. There was something about duty and producing an heir, but all of that flew out of her mind when he parted her legs and rested his hips to hers.
“Lift your heels, my dear.” With patience, he showed her how to hug him with her thighs.
“Like this?” She did as he bade, knowing full well what was about to happen.
“Yesss.”
After fumbling with the placket of his breeches, he gave her his weight, and pressure built at her core, as he pushed forward. Their bodies merged, such that she knew not where she ended and he began. The first thrust threatened to tear her in two, as Anthony gave her no time to adjust to his intimate invasion. And it was intimate. Profoundly personal. Unlike anything she had ever experienced and certainly nothing for which a book could have prepared her. Indeed, practical knowledge had much to recommend it.
Despite the initial discomfort, she found her rhythm and matched his, as he set a frenetic pace. Wave upon wave of pure, unadulterated bliss blanketed her, and her insides twisted and turned in anticipation, to accommodate him. Glorious warmth coiled in her loins, spreading throughout her limbs, pervading every part of her. On wings of ecstasy, she soared ever higher, to a place where she existed as something more than herself. Teetering on the brink of a precipice, she held her breath and tensed.
It was then her husband groaned and stretched taut, well-nigh scaring her to death. The elusive peak vanished, shattered by his vociferous expression, even as she reached for release, and how she grasped for the intangible yet enthralling summit. In that moment, he collapsed atop her, and everything came to an abrupt and frustrating halt, leaving her yearning for what she knew not.
For a while, she remained rooted beneath him, his flesh still buried deep within hers, fearing she might startle him and trigger another episode of nostalgia. She whispered encouragement and walked her fingers along his beautiful back. Flexing her thighs, she held him close, long after the torrent passed. At last, he turned his head. She expected him to say something. Anything about what just occurred between them, because she wanted to talk.
Instead, he wept.
Chapter Fourteen
Birds chirped a lilting singsong, and the sun filtered through a water-speckled window, casting a mosaic of light on the floor, signaling that little remained of the storm, as Anthony squirmed in the bedside chair and guarded his sleeping bride. Clothed in naught but his silk robe, he closed his eyes and revisited the events of the night, which saw him abandoning his heretofore-vaunted self-control and thoroughly seducing his wife. He could only imagine what she thought of him, in the wake of his rakish behavior, and he vowed to endure, without complaint, whatever redress she delivered. Just then, Arabella roused, and he girded himself to withstand the consequences of his actions, which he more than deserved.
“Hmm.” Her eyelids fluttered and lifted. When she spotted him, she smiled. She smiled. “Good morning, my lord,” she said in a breathy voice that set him on his heels, because he expected hysterics. Recriminations. A candlestick lobbed at his head. “How are you on this glorious day?”
“Er—fine.” Of course, he was better than fine after a night spent in her arms, but hers was not the reaction he anticipated. Still, he tensed and prepared to pose a question guaranteed to incite his lady, and it was nothing less than he deserved, given his bawdy conduct. “And you?”
“I’m wonderful.” Her reply came to him, as if from afar, and echoed in his ears. Yet, she showed no hint of fear or anger. Rather, his bride appeared…euphoric. That couldn’t have been right. He must’ve been mistaken, and he believed that, until she patted the space beside her and pouted. “What are you doing over there, my lord? It is chilly, and we could be so much warmer, together, beneath the covers. Will you not cuddle with me?”
“Are you sure you are well?” He scratched the back of his neck and shook his head. Then he glanced about the room, to be sure he was cognizant of the situation. “Given what occurred, I thought you might be quite put out, and I would understand, because I did not behave as would a gentleman. I brought shame to myself and my family, and I am so sorry, Arabella. I have no excuse, but I promise I will make amends.”
“Why should I be put out? And amends for—what?” She giggled. She actually giggled and wagged a finger. “My lord, you were incapacitated. It is true, you were no gentleman, but neither were you yourself, and I believe the state of our affairs necessitated something else, entirely. Oh, you were a naughty boy.”
“Precisely.” It must have been shock, because he took a gently bred virgin like a seasoned courtesan, and that was no way to ease an unbroken mare into harness. He acted in a reprehensible manner, and he owed her an apology and so much more. “I took liberties.”
“How so, when we are married? Are our actions not government sanctioned?” Clutching the sheet to her bosom, she closed her eyes and dropped back her head. “Besides, you were overwrought. The storm triggered another episode, and I needed to calm you.”
“Ah, yes. I remember naught but bits and pieces.” Memories flooded his mind, and salacious images flashed before him. Tangled legs. Breathy sighs. Tender kisses. Despite his efforts to manage his arousal, his body ached for her. “That is no excuse.”
“It is to me.” She sat upright and met his stare. “You were hurting, and I will not stand idly by while you suffer. Not now. Not ever. It was within my means to provide relief, as would any wife, and it is not as if you forced me to do something against my will. I assure you, I gave myself to you of my own volition. Indeed, I provoked you, on purpose. I would argue it was my duty to submit, to consummate our union as well as offer comfort, but it was also my pleasure.”
“Your pleasure?” Again, she stunned him, and he blinked. “You mean to say you enjoyed it?”
“Well, it was a tad rough the first time—”
“The first time?” He sifted through the remnants of his memories from last night, much of which remained a haze. “We did it more than once?”
“Oh, I should say so, my wicked lord, but it is disappointing that you do not recall it, because it was unforgettable for me.” She shrugged and hummed a flirty ditty. “And you more than redeemed yourself on the second and third rounds of coitus. I may require a nap, today, because I slept little thanks to your connubial games, although that is not a complaint.”
“Indeed?” She could have knocked him over with a feather, and he wondered if he was locked in a dream. A crazed but fanciful dream no sane husband would ever conjure. “So, you liked it?”
“More than liked it.” The expression on her face left him in no doubt of her sincerity. “It far surpassed my expectations, which I thought reasonable and sound, because I based my suppositions on what I read about physical intimacy. But I am convinced the so-called experts pose ill-informed conclusions based on little if any practical knowledge.”
Anthony could only laugh at her charming assertions, however naïve.
“Then you are not traumatized, and I am forgiven?” He pondered the circumstances and sighed. “Even though we should have waited?”
“I am not traumatized, and th
ere is nothing to forgive.” Arabella tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear and furrowed her brow. “Whether or not you realize it, you are not to blame for what happened, because I could have stopped you, but I didn’t want to stop you. I could not bear your suffering, and I needed to be close to you. If you recall, my efforts proved efficient in Papa’s study, the night our engagement was announced.”
“Yes, but I didn’t claim your bride’s prize then.” Yet, it was too late to undo his actions, but he suspected there would be hell to pay, in the end. “Regardless of intent, we may have given my father exactly what he wants.”
“Then the fault is mine to own, because you were not fully compos mentis.” She frowned. “I had to do something, given your shouts of alarm, which could have summoned Shaw and his villains. We know not how they would have responded to your episode of nostalgia, although I’d wager it would not have been good, and I was not willing to take that chance.”
“Nostalgia.” He mulled Larrey’s book and rubbed his chin. “A fascinating treatise I was ready to discount, but I am grateful I listened to you.”
“I am so glad you think so, because I see so much of you in his words.” After fluffing her pillows, she settled amid the down. “While I know it is a sensitive topic, which I more than understand, I only wanted to help.”
“I know that.” He nodded once. “Like you, I saw myself on every page. Between the lines in each paragraph. It was if he knew me.”
“And what did you learn?”
“That I am not insane.” He exhaled and savored the liberating declaration. “That thousands of soldiers, regardless of rank, disability, or background, suffer the same symptoms, and it is an enormous relief to know that I am not an oddity. I am not alone.” Anthony leaned forward and rested his elbow to his knee. “Until yesterday, when I examined Larrey’s deductions, there was always the smallest amount of uncertainty, given I assessed myself. Since my father seemed so insistent, I presumed there could be a kernel of truth to his position. That I might just be unhinged, but now I know he is mistaken.”
The Accidental Duke (The Mad Matchmaking Men of Waterloo Book 1) Page 21