In the Garden of Deceit (Book 4)

by Cynthia Wicklund

  “Why not? We’ve put this off for two days. We are married, Amanda. I want to make love to my wife.”

  “I don’t feel like your wife.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” he barked.

  Amanda felt like wringing her hands. Instead she clasped them tightly in her lap. All she wanted was to fling herself back into his arms and a let him ease the burning ache that his lovemaking had started. But what was she to do with the ache in her heart? If she gave in to him now, she would never forgive herself. Her pride, what little was left of it, was all she had.

  “I feel used and soiled because of it.”

  “Used?” He sounded incredulous. “Have I treated you with less than respect?”

  “Respect is only a part of it, can’t you see that?”

  “What are you talking about? I know you’re angry with me—”

  “If only it were as simple as anger,” she whispered.

  That stopped him. “Then what are we to do?” he asked at last.

  “I need time…”

  “The longer we wait the more difficult it will be.”

  Amanda lifted one shoulder irritably. “It’s difficult for me right now.”

  “How much time do you need?” Was that frustration in his voice?

  “I don’t know. Until I feel better about all this.”

  For a long while he merely watched her and, as the moments ticked by, her heart began to thump erratically. He was angry, that much she sensed.

  “A marriage is a contract,” he said. “And the marriage bed is part of that contract. I am fair to have certain expectations.”

  “Since when did fair begin to matter?” Only when it pertained to him, it seemed. Now she was angry, also.

  “I want children, Amanda.”

  Amanda averted her gaze, annoyed that the mention of children made her blush. She wanted to tell him that she didn’t give a fig what he wanted, but that was not entirely true. She did care, and they did have a contract. Strange how an impersonal business agreement could have such intimate conditions.

  “I was not speaking of forever, James. I simply wanted to come to terms with this union, to align my expectations to reality, before…”

  James leaned back against the squabs, his expression turning mulish. “So we are to put our lives on hold until you decide to decide?”

  She had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, that he wouldn’t push her when she wasn’t ready. So be it. She would dredge up her little plan and see if her cooperation was worth the price.

  “Since you are adamant, waiting won’t be necessary. However, ah,” Amanda stumbled, the words like lead in her throat now that it was time to say them, “I’ll not be participating in any…significant way.”

  “Are you saying what I think you are saying?” he bit out.

  “There’s only so much of me you can demand, James. You can’t make me respond. The contract says I have to warm your bed, but it doesn’t say I have to like it.”

  “Is that so?” James said cynically. “Seems to me you were responding only minutes ago and liking it just fine.”

  Amanda felt the blood surge to her face. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

  “What is wrong with you, woman? I’d be a fool to agree to such nonsense.”

  “Those are the terms for my cooperation.”

  “And if I don’t agree?”

  “Then perhaps it would be best if I went home and ended this farce before there is no turning back.”

  Even as she spoke Amanda feared his answer, whether he said yes or no. Yes meant he cared for her not at all, and no meant he had too much to lose—financially speaking. She held her breath as he digested her ultimatum.

  “We are not giving up so easily, Amanda,” he said darkly. “I am not a shirker and, I suspect, neither are you. To quit before we’ve even begun seems cowardly at best.”

  The air she was holding whooshed from her mouth in a gust of relief—and misery. It was the money. But as long as he took her with him, she had hope. Hope that one day he would love her, hope that he would not regret being saddled with a wife not of his own choosing. Perhaps he might even forget to be ashamed of her pedigree.

  “I’ve decided not to press you,” James continued.

  “Thank you. I—”

  “But,” he put up his hand to stem her gratitude, “I reserve the right to change my mind.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your ‘I need time’ pronouncement is rather undefined. Doesn’t give me much to work with, makes no promises. So…” he prolonged the agony of waiting, his gaze now hard and inscrutable, “I propose to take this thing a day at a time. If tomorrow I decide to accept your offer, you will of course oblige me, correct? No feminine hysterics or reneging?”

  “Well, I…y-yes, of course,” she managed after a moment. “As long as you are satisfied with, uh…”

  “Your lack of participation? Certainly. It is understood.”

  “Good,” she stated nervously. The situation was getting out of control—her control—although she would be a fool to believe she’d ever had any.

  “Just so we understand the rules.” Casually he glanced at his hand, studying his nails, as if they were discussing nothing more profound than tomorrow night’s supper. “My participation is not to be—shall we say—impeded in any way?”

  For the life of her, Amanda did not know how to respond. It was one thing to talk intimacies while doing intimate things, but sitting across from one another in a moving carriage, impersonally negotiating the terms of their lovemaking, had taken on a bizarre quality.

  “I’m not certain what you mean.” Her speech was breathless now and high-pitched.

  James settled back more deeply against the cushions, still watching her. His lazy attitude continued unabated.

  “Lovemaking entails more than…the basic act,” he said. “There is the need to enhance the mood. For a man this is particularly important.”

  “I-It is?”

  “Most definitely. That requires kissing and touching—not for your sake, you understand—but for mine.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, indeed, I don’t want to feel that I must hold back. Are we in agreement on this?”

  “I see no reason why not,” she blustered. “I won’t be the one affected.”

  A strange smile played around his mouth. “No, you won’t be the one affected.”

  “You say that as if you don’t believe me.”

  “Oh, I believe you, but it occurs to me that we perhaps should take this by degrees.”

  Truly appalled, she said, “Now, what are you talking about?”

  “Just a kiss here, a touch there, nothing that requires a finish, if you understand my meaning. We can work up to it. That should reduce the pressure on you.”

  Certainly, as if she were not feeling the pressure at this very moment, his husky words like an aphrodisiac working on her senses. Amanda was warm under her jacket, sweating she would admit, if ladies admitted that they sweated. She wished she could take the jacket off, but taking anything off right now seemed ill-advised.

  “You think you are very clever, don’t you?” she said. “By degrees—are you certain you can live with that?”

  James waved a nonchalant hand. “Gives me the opportunity to decide if I really want to pursue…well, you know, given the conditions you’ve stipulated.”

  “You think me unfair?”

  “I think you unwise, Amanda.”

  A crash of thunder overhead saved her from having to answer. The rain that had been threatening for most of the day burst from the sky in an angry deluge. Wind buffeted the carriage, rocking the vehicle violently. A steak of lightening lit up the landscape, and another loud crash filled the air around them.

  James pounded on the roof. Moments later the driver pulled over and stopped, the carriage lurching when he jump to the ground. James opened the door, hanging tightly to the handle as the wind tried to wrench it from his grasp.
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br />   The driver was soaked, and demoralized by the looks of him. “M’lord?” he shouted, rain flowing off his lips and down the front of his slicker.

  “We can’t travel in this weather, Benton. We’ll be stuck in mud in no time if we do. First inn you see, we have to stop.”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  Once again James and she were alone in the carriage, but it was dark due to the storm, and all she could see was the fuzzy outline of his body, the glint of an eye, the flash of his teeth. The temperature had dropped dramatically, and Amanda was now glad for the warmth of her jacket.

  “Are you frightened?” he asked.

  “Not by a little rain, I’m not.”

  “I see.” And perhaps he did.

  They rode in silence after that, just as they had begun their trip. Shortly thereafter they pulled into the yard of an inn and, to their relief, the feel of cobbled stones beneath the wheels of the carriage instead of dirt quickly turning to mud. James negotiated the downpour, making the arrangements then he came for her.

  Her husband, now soaked himself, helped her into the inn and up a rickety flight of stairs. Her skirt was wet several inches above the hem, making it heavy and dangerously clumsy. He escorted her into a small chamber—a bed, a rocking chair, and a night table—just as Benton arrived with their luggage. Only then did the import of those bags strike her. As the door closed behind the servant, she turned on James.

  “We’re not sharing this room!” she hissed.

  “Do you prefer to sleep in the stables?” he asked in an awful voice. “I can tell you, I do not.”

  “Of course not. Just obtain another room.”

  “There are no other rooms, Amanda. In case you hadn’t noticed, we are in the middle of a storm, and we are not the only travelers seeking shelter. We’re fortunate this room was still available. It was the last one.”

  She stared at him, flustered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “We’re married. I suppose I didn’t regard it as an issue.” James took off his wet coat. “Think of it as adhering to the contract,” he said, tossing it to the floor.

  “The contract?”

  “You will be warming my bed. Naturally, you don’t have to like it.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  He stopped in the middle of removing his shirt, his expression disdainful. “Amanda, do not assume. Turn down my advances when I’ve given you reason.”

  “But you’re taking off your shirt.”

  “I’m sorry if I embarrass you, but I am drenched. I’ll be damned if I will stay in these clothes simply because it makes you uncomfortable. I suggest you change as well. You are going to fall in that skirt.”

  “I-I’ll wait until you leave.”

  He made a sound of disgust and, despite her protests, peeled down to his skin.

  Amanda turned away, but her awareness of him only a few feet away was intense. Despite her discomfort, she gave in to curiosity and peeked over her shoulder.

  He was as naked as the day he was born, tall and broad-shouldered, muscles working in his back as he rummaged in his bag. His skin was browned from years in the tropical sun. He must have spent a lot of time outdoors undressed, because the rich golden color covered him from head to foot. She was shocked by a sudden throbbing in her throat, desire washing over her in a seductive wave.

  If James was aware of her furtive inspection, he chose to ignore her, going about the business of getting dressed, no wasted movement—or modesty, for that matter—as he stepped into trousers and buttoned a clean shirt. He slipped into another coat, combed his hair, and moved to the door. Only then did he look at her as she quickly looked away.

  “I leave you to your privacy,” he said, the words clipped and ironic, considering he’d had none. The door snapped shut behind him.

  Amanda stood in the middle of the room, feeling lost and very much alone. She had antagonized James, which she regretted now that it was too late. She was drawn to him in an almost compulsive way, attraction so strong at times, she wondered if she were going mad. She was ready to damn her pride and take what he offered, ultimately unsatisfactory though it might be.

  She wasn’t comfortable with the passion. What she was feeling seemed excessive, more the territory of randy young men than ladies of refined sensibilities. She thought of her husband sating his needs on her while she remained aloof. Possible? Not bloody likely if her past responses were any indication. What a fool she was to have challenged him.

  She removed her gown. Unable to reach the laces at the back of her corset, Amanda fought the hooks in front, frustrated when she heard the ripping of stitches. At least the ruined seams allowed her to loosen the thing enough to remove it. On the verge of a temper tantrum, she threw the damp garment next to her husband’s clothes, wishing Betty were here to help her dress. But James had done well on his own, and she could do no less.

  Amanda donned a simple frock, one with buttons down the front, eschewing another corset and the perennial hoop, which was a fashion blunder of major proportions. She did not care, for who was here to see? She did what she could to restore her hair and drew a shawl over her shoulders.

  She assumed her husband was expecting her downstairs. They had not eaten since early morning, and she was starved, her stomach protesting audibly. She could request a meal in her room but knew that would be the final insult where James was concerned. Maybe they could have a pleasant meal together and repair some of the damage. Not that she intended to thaw in her initial attitude, but she did hate the open warfare.

  Amanda refused to acknowledge that she might be inspired to ease the friction by the memory of splendid man, his naked body sun-kissed and virile, an invitation on his lips that was hard to resist.

  In a torment of indecision, her heart warring with more earthy needs, she left her room and descended to the dining room.

  ***

  CHAPTER 6

  James sat at an old scarred table in the dining room of the inn, nursing an ale and feeling mightily sorry for himself. If ever a man had had high expectations, only to have them dashed, surely he was that man. His new bride despised him, a woman so beautiful most men would give their right arm to possess her.

  He was at the moment trying to calm himself, to control an anger that was not entirely fair. Amanda had reason to be unhappy with him. He had deceived her. But despite his desire to be just, he also felt her response was extreme. Arranged marriages were not unheard of, and financial considerations played a part in most of them. Any aristocrat understood that.

  Amanda was right—he should have told her about his arrangement with her father. But why must she assume that affection and common sense were mutually exclusive? that he could not care for her because her money was useful to him. Rubbish, but how was he to convince her of that?

  She was, however, not indifferent to him, he thought with a smile, the one bright spot in an otherwise dreadful situation. He thought back to the last hour when he had stood in the room above, naked as Michelangelo’s David, aware all the while his lovely wife was ogling him. He could only hope it was with a lustful eye because, if she at least desired him, he might have a chance of bringing her around.

  He suspected that was her one weakness despite her outrage. She was a woman of passion. But it made the situation all the more frustrating, since she was keeping him at arm’s length, and all he wanted was to make love to her until they were both too worn to stand.

  He had no intention of honoring that ridiculous little bargain of hers. He thought this without guilt, because the idea of bedding an indifferent partner left him cold and disinterested. She could hardly benefit from such a sterile coupling, either. But she had handed him a challenge and, if it were the last thing he did, he would bring her around. Before it was over her “participation” would rival his own. Anything else was unacceptable.

  He took another swig of his ale, dissatisfied with the meager intoxication it produced compared to the sexual intoxication he was craving. He gl
anced up as his wife entered the dining room.

  Every male head in the vicinity swung in her direction. Amanda stood on the threshold, searching for him. She was dressed simply in sea mist green, no hoops, her black hair slightly mussed, giving her a softer, sweeter—more accessible?—look that tugged at his heart. In that moment, emotion expanding in his chest, James was more proud of her than he thought possible.

  When she saw him her face lit with recognition, and she sent him a tentative smile. She hesitated, however, until he waved her over. James grinned inwardly as the sea of heads turned in unison, watching her progress across the room. Who could blame them? How often did a goddess step down from her throne to astonish the patrons of a tavern?

  Amanda sat in the seat opposite him, bringing with her the soft scent of lavender and an aura of femininity uniquely Amanda. He was shocked by a wave of sexual hunger, a need so intense it confused him. He drew in a deep breath to clear his head.

  “You look lovely,” he said.

  “Oh. I do?” She looked surprised. “I was thinking that I should have made more effort. But I couldn’t face putting on my hoops.”

  “Or your corset?” he asked thickly.

  Her eyes widened but, before she could answer, a serving girl approached their table.

  They ordered supper and James pressed on her a glass of ale.

  “Ale is a man’s drink, James, and not a very sophisticated one at that,” she protested.

  “It will relax you.”

  A flicker of distrust entered her eyes. “I am relaxed.”

  James sighed, unwilling to take offense. “Come, Amanda, I’m trying to put this uncomfortable day behind us. Join me in a drink. We can take up the battle again tomorrow.”

  Her gaze traveled across his features, back and forth, as if assessing his honesty. Seemingly satisfied, she nodded curtly. And when the ale arrived, she picked up the mug gingerly. Her first sip brought a grimace of distaste.

  “Disgusting.” She shuddered, but he detected humor in her attitude. “How do you drink such a foul beverage?”

  “It is an acquired taste,” James admitted, delighted with her effort to play along.