by Diane Gaston
She continued the vows in modulated tones. ‘I take these folks to witness that I declare and acknowledge Guy Keating to be my guideman.’
Guideman, indeed. Pretender, perhaps. Deceiver?
Rogue.
The anvil priest, who looked more like a prosperous merchant, come to think of it, took both their hands and clasped them together. ‘Weel, the deed is done. Y’re husband and wife.’ The man laughed, jiggling his considerable girth. ‘Kiss the bride, mon.’
Guy jerked up his chin. He’d forgotten about this part of the ritual. He had kissed her once, upon proposing, because it seemed what he ought to have done, but he’d not thought of kissing her since.
She coloured and glanced shyly at him through her lashes. He leaned down and placed his lips on hers.
God help him if her lips did not seem expectant, as though she anticipated more than this sham of a marriage could deliver. She deserved more, after all.
‘Now shall we go on to the inn, then?’ The anvil priest raised his brows. The inn was another of his enterprises, no doubt.
Guy swallowed. He had not forgotten they were required to consummate the marriage. Would she be as hopeful on that score as with the kiss? First they would have a leisurely supper and then… He offered her his arm. ‘Shall we go, my dear?’ What he meant to say was I’m sorry.
He escorted her around the puddles left in the street from the afternoon’s rains. What sunlight there had been that day waned in the sky, slipping as low as his confidence. He’d once thought this the wisest course, but now he felt like the veriest blackguard.
A wide puddle of water blocked the entrance to the inn, not a problem for his boots, but deep enough to dampen the hem of her skirt. He scooped her up and carried her over the threshold. Her face remained subdued, but she trustingly settled in his arms, feeling to him almost as a wife ought.
He made a vow more genuine than the ones he’d repeated after the anvil priest. He vowed to be a good husband to her. He vowed she would never know the truth of why he’d married her.
Their meal was a stilted affair, the two of them confined together in a private parlour. He tried his best to be as solicitous as a new husband ought.
‘Would you like some fish, my dear?’ he asked.
‘Do you care for another piece of tart?’
‘Shall I pour you another glass of wine?
She responded with similar politeness and managed to dredge up conversation, mainly about the food.
‘This tart is delicious, do you not think?…The pastry flakes wonderfully…The raspberries are sweet, are they not?’
And he responded as he ought. ‘Very delicious…very sweet.’ In truth, he could not taste the food at all, and he’d availed himself of the innkeeper’s whisky far more than was prudent. Surely all their future meals together would not be so excruciatingly dull.
After they finished the last course, no other choice remained but to climb the stairs to the bedchamber the anvil priest/innkeeper had promised them.
Guy’s boots beat like a drum against the worn wood of the staircase, matching the loud tattoo of his heart. He’d bedded his share of women. Any man in regimentals was bound to, after all, but those simple exchanges were honest ones. How could he bed Miss Duprey—his wife, he meant—when he’d kept the truth from her? He’d feared she would not marry him if he had been totally honest about needing her fortune, though many a ton marriage took place for that very reason.
The innkeeper led them down a hallway to the bedchamber where a cheerful fire flickered in the hearth. The oak floor was covered with a figured rug, and a large bed, its linens turned down, dominated the room. A bottle of wine and two glasses sat on the small table next to it, and a branch of candles further illuminated the charming scene.
Miss Duprey—his wife—wandered over to the window and stood peeking through the gap in the curtains. She still held her hat and gloves as if not certain of staying.
‘I weel leave y’, good sir.’ The innkeeper gave Guy a broad wink and grinned wide enough to expose the gap between his teeth that had not been visible during the brief wedding ceremony.
The thud of the closing door broke the silence, while Guy’s disordered emotions continued to rage inside him. Miss Duprey—his wife, dammit! he must recall—turned at the sound.
Her eyes were wide, but her countenance composed. She clutched at her hat, crushing its ribbons.
He tried to smile. ‘Do you care for some wine, my dear?’
‘Thank you,’ she said.
He poured two glasses, wishing it were the good Scottish whisky instead. She glanced around and finally found a bureau upon which to place her hat and gloves. With hands clasped like a schoolgirl, she walked over to the bedside table. He handed her a glass and took one himself, almost raising it to his lips before he caught himself. He ought to make a toast.
His mind raced to think of something, hoping he did not appear as witless as he felt. Her expression conveyed no hint that she guessed his thoughts.
‘To our future…’ he managed, clinking his glass with hers.
‘Yes,’ she replied in a whisper.
Their wine consumed, he stared awkwardly. She made no move. He supposed it was his responsibility to decide how to go on.
‘Do you desire me to call a maid to assist you?’ he asked. ‘I could step downstairs to allow you some privacy.’ And consume how many whiskys while she readied herself for her wedding night?
She shook her head.
A wave of panic rushed through him, the latest of many on this day. Would he be able to perform his husbandly duty? How ironic. If he could not perform, he would provide her the means to have the marriage annulled. One could almost laugh at the thought.
She was a well-enough appearing female. There was nothing to object to in her. So why could he not dredge up some modicum of desire?
Guilt prevented him, of course. Lying to her, telling her that her father had refused permission when, in truth, he’d never approached the man. Guy had tricked her into this flight to Gretna Green, leading her to believe there was no other way for them to wed.
He tried to conceal his emotions. ‘We do not have to…to consummate our vows this night, if you do not wish to,’ he said. ‘There is no one to know but ourselves.’
The hint of concern flitted through her eyes. ‘The bed sheets?’
Ah, the bed sheets. Some chambermaid or another would be changing the linens and might notice the lack of evidence. Would that create any difficulty? He failed to see why any of these people would care. They’d been well paid. What’s more, she could easily be a widow or something. He shrugged. He’d come too far to take a risk now.
‘I could contrive something.’ Blood was a ready commodity, as any soldier knew. He might pierce his arm above his sleeve, bleed on the sheets and no one would be the wiser.
‘I am willing to proceed,’ she replied.
How was she able to keep her tone so temperate? She might as well be conversing with afternoon callers, but he, on the other hand, felt his voice might crack and fail him at any moment.
Her expression remained equally as mild as her fingers reached for the buttons of her spencer. He watched her free each button and pull off the garment. Placing it neatly on a chest at the end of the bed, she reached behind her back and struggled with her laces. He closed the distance between them.
Feeling as if he were perched on the ceiling observing himself, he undid her laces and slipped the dress off her shoulders. She remained as still as a statue as it slid to the floor. His fingers trembled when he set about removing her corset, but he soon had her free of that garment as well.
She turned to face him dressed only in her shift.
Perhaps if she conveyed some emotion, he might be more easy in this moment, but she was as colourless as she ever had been. He held his breath, watching her take the pins out of her hair and wondering how the devil he was going to be able to perform.
She ought to have a husband who g
reeted this moment with joy instead of obligation. She ought to run from him now and deny there had ever been a wedding. Bribe the avaricious anvil priest to destroy the marks in the register and hire the fastest post chaise back to Bath.
Such spirit, he would not blame—he might even admire it—but her compliance made him feel like a cad.
Taking a deep breath, he sat down on the bed to remove his boots.
Emily stood by, watching her husband as she smoothed her hair neatly behind her shoulders. She could not recall ever seeing a man remove his boots, even her father and brother, but certainly they would not have done so with the same masculine grace as Guy Keating.
Her heart fluttered at this intimate sight of him. He was by no means the tallest of gentlemen, only perhaps five or six inches above her own height, but there was such an air of compact energy about him that he seemed to take up more space.
That first glimpse of him came back to mind, in the Pump Room, her eyes drawn to him almost of their own accord. He had been leaning down to speak to two elderly ladies whom she now knew were his mother’s aunts, an expression of acute tenderness on his face. That look alone had disarmed her. When he’d picked up one lady’s shawl and wrapped it lovingly around her shoulders, Emily had thought she would weep for the sweetness of the sight.
Later that week at the Assembly he had walked up to her at her brother’s side, having begged an introduction. To her.
Emily still marvelled at it. She watched him now pulling at his other boot, his dark hair curling around his head, his blue eyes shadowed by dark lashes any woman would covet. Why this good man had sought her out for attention, she still could not countenance. Nor could she explain why he had offered for her, when for three London Seasons no other man had fixed his interest on her.
She’d feared he must be mad or playing some cruel trick, but her brother assured her Guy Keating was top o’ the trees, come into a handsome property, as game as he could go.
She’d also asked her brother why such a man would be interested in her, for it seemed so mystifying that he should be, when no other man had been.
Robert had said, ‘Wager you ten to one his mama and those old crones of hers gave him a wigging for not setting up his nursery. His brother never did, y’know. Never fell in parson’s mousetrap, never got an heir. One or two by-blows, but that is of no consequence. Shot himself, y’know. Lost at hazard. Lucky for Keating. Inherited the title.’
She had not asked her brother to speculate further, but, once begun, Robert tended to chatter on in his affected way of speaking. He added that the new Viscount had still been wearing black during the last Season. Robert suspected Keating, with his elderly charges in tow, had come to Bath to find a wife.
Still, there had been other eligible young ladies in Bath; why had Keating fixed his interest upon her?
It had been every bit as mysterious when Keating told her that her father refused his suit. Keating was so perfectly respectable. He was a viscount, after all.
Perhaps her father had been exacting revenge, because she had ruined his deranged scheme to trap the wealthy brother of a marquess into marrying her. She suspected her father had also set the town’s unpleasant rakes upon her as well, showing her what sort of men were left to her, since she’d refused his plans. What other explanation could there be for the false flatterers to suddenly court her and pay her their absurd compliments? Such men preferred women with some looks or fortune, so it could have been nothing else but a trick.
Keating had been her only respectable suitor.
She must have been mad to agree to this Scottish elopement with him! But, what if she had not dared to sneak off? She might never have had another chance to marry a decent man.
So now she stood next to an unmade bed, dressed only in her shift, watching him remove his coat, waistcoat and shirt.
She hoped she was not gaping like the silliest of maids. She had tried so diligently to be correct. She wanted nothing more than to do everything correctly, though she had only the vaguest of notions of what was to come.
He stood, his chest bare, and it was all she could do not to stare at the wide expanse of skin. Each muscle looked as if it had been sculpted by some Greek master long ago. Her heart raced again as it had done when he’d removed her corset, touching her with only the thin fabric of her shift between her skin and his fingertips.
Was she to do something at this moment? She was conscious of a desire to place her hands on that wide chest, to feel the muscles for herself, but she dared not appear too forward. He looked away at that moment, and she took the opportunity to glance at his trousers, bold enough to eagerly anticipate what a man really looked like.
He glanced back at her, a half-smile on his face. He reached his hand to caress her cheek, and a surprising bolt of sensation shot to her female parts. Her face grew hot, and she was suddenly very impatient for this matter to progress.
‘Shall we…shall we lie on the bed?’ he asked, his voice low and raspy.
She nodded, too fearful of appearing incorrect to ask why he did not ask her to remove her shift nor he remove his trousers.
She climbed on to the bed, its linens cool through the thin muslin of her shift. He settled next to her and her heart raced again. He covered them both with the blanket and, after a pause in which she had no idea what to do, he removed the remainder of his clothing. Somewhat relieved she would not yet have to gaze upon a man’s anatomy, she took that as her cue to remove her stockings and her shift, for the first time in her life naked in bed.
He stiffened for a moment when she tossed those undergarments to the floor. ‘I forgot to extinguish the candles,’ he said, hurriedly slipping out of bed.
She trembled as she watched his bare form walk across the room. He looked quite like a Roman statue she’d glimpsed once at a wealthy London townhouse.
The light from the fireplace did not prove bright enough to show more than a shadow of the front of him when he returned. He crawled back under the covers and faced her in the darkness, his handsome features only dimly visible.
Would he be able to see how full of anxiety she was at this moment? She dared not appear too forward, as carnal as her sister had undoubtedly been, but it would certainly displease him if she shrank away.
He took a deep breath and reached for her, pulling her towards him so that her bare skin touched his. She felt the parts of him she had not been able to discern press against her own intimate parts. He was softer than she would have imagined. His hands stroked her back, creating an unexpected thrill of pleasure matched only by the sensation of her breasts against his chest.
His hands continued to explore her in what seemed to her a resolute way, but, then, she’d had no experience with which to compare. His body broke away from hers while his hands stroked her breasts. The sensations he created were almost frightening. Were these the emotions that had caused her sister’s downfall?
‘I have no wish to…to hurt you,’ he murmured haltingly.
‘I am certain you will not,’ she replied.
She knew that the first time was painful, but that was all she knew. It was difficult to imagine pain when her whole body had never felt so suddenly alive.
‘I must try to ease it for you,’ he said with a strong tone of duty.
His hand slid from her breast to her abdomen, her belly, to between her legs. She gasped, momentarily clamping her legs together. She quickly forced herself to relax.
He fingered that secret place of hers. Was it wicked for him to do so? She certainly had been taught by nursemaids and governesses that she must not touch it unless absolutely necessary. The sensations created were almost unbearably intense. Not painful, really, but not at all comfortable.
His fingers became slippery, and she worried for a moment that her courses had started. She could not bear that particular humiliation. It seemed not to deter him.
Without warning his fingers entered her and she could not help gasping in surprise.
‘I mus
t,’ he said.
She had no idea such actions were possible. Surely it was not as wicked as it felt! Her husband was not a wicked man, was he? To her surprise, her hips seemed to convulse without her willing them. She tried to remain as still as possible for fear moving might offend him. Maidens were supposed to hesitate at this moment, were they not?
His fingers created a strange, almost pleasureful pressure inside her. It made it quite difficult to think. Suddenly he pulled them out.
‘I will enter you,’ he said, sounding very solemn.
He gently urged her on her back and rose above her, the entire length of his body above hers held up by the strength of his arms. Slowly his muscles eased and he lowered himself, his legs between hers.
The part of him that had been so soft was now mysteriously hard and so much larger than it had been. Surely it was too large for her. He pushed against her and slowly, gently, the tip entered. It was difficult for her not to rise to meet his stroke.
He lunged and pain shot through her. She could not help but cry out. He immediately ceased.
‘It is all right,’ she managed, not wishing him to think herself truly injured.
The pain, in fact, could not compare with the other sensations, burning ones, insistent ones, ones that seemed to beg him to continue. It was a great relief when he did so, pushing in and out of her, faster and faster.
He suddenly gave a deep guttural cry and tensed. As he collapsed on top of her, her body still pulsated with such an intensity she thought she might shatter. Unbidden, tears sprang to her eyes.
He eased himself off her, and she felt like her body had been strewn into broken shards. That part of her where he’d entered hurt, but the rest of her ached. She wanted to rage at him, but was unsure why. He had done what men were supposed to do, had he not? Was she supposed to feel the way she did, wanting him to repeat the act, but wanting more to never feel such carnality again?
Her eyes had long adjusted to the dim light, and she gazed at his face, the arch of his dark brows, the way his lower lip was thicker than his upper. It was a handsome face, but the face of a stranger.